


The Last Stark in Winterfell

by crookedneighbour, TenMoreSins



Series: Tony Stark of Winterfell [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Sex, Banter, Bondage, But Peter Parker is a Sweet Summer Child, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, First Time Bottoming, Flirting, GoT Appropriate Levels of Violence and Death, Greenseer Peter Parker, Hedge Knight Quentin Beck, Hero Worship, Iron-Man? More Like Valyrian-Steel-Man Amirite, Jealous Tony Stark, Jousting, Loss of Control, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Peter Parker Has a Crush, Pining, Plotty, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, Protective Tony Stark, Requited Love, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, Swordfighting, Swordplay, Swords, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark is King in the North, Tony Stark of Winterfell, Underage Drinking, What's a Game of Thrones AU Without Some Fucked up Ulterior Motives?, Ye Olde Naming Conventions, like woah, winter is coming, yes we went there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedneighbour/pseuds/crookedneighbour, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenMoreSins/pseuds/TenMoreSins
Summary: Just because the Parker boy thinks the world of him does not make Anthony the Iron a good King, or even a good man.Truly, in a way, it makes him that much worse.It's a weakness that Ser Quentyn Becke fully intends to capitalize on.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Quentin Beck & Peter Parker, Quentin Beck & Tony Stark, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Quentin Beck/Tony Stark
Series: Tony Stark of Winterfell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615750
Comments: 65
Kudos: 89





	1. The Price of Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so forewarning we are sort of running fast and loose with both lore bases here in our attempt at blending them together while still being mostly true to the source material. We kind of had a moment and then it snowballed and now it's like, a whole thing, so hopefully you all enjoy this shameless AU as much as we are enjoying writing it! This will undoubtedly be raised to Explicit rating soon enough, and tags will be edited as we go. —TMS
> 
> This takes place when the North is not yet united and the Starks are still Kings! As it continues I’ll talk more about the lore!! —CN
> 
> HERE WE GO.

Today was not just any other day in Winterfell.

Today, Prince Anthony, sole heir to Howland and Marya Stark, King and Queen in the North, rode alongside Stark bannermen and liege lords alike, all pomp and regalia on their way to the gates. The banner of House Stark flew high, depicting a rampant dire wolf beneath a lustrous blue moon. 

Prince Anthony was joined by Lord Rhodes, known as the Lord of the Siege for his command of the Prince's trebuchets and ballistae. He wore steel forged by the Prince himself, with a look similar to the Prince’s signature armor.

Prince Anthony had supposedly learned the secrets of Valyrian steel from study in Essos, after he was once taken for ransom. With red and gold ribbons throughout his suit, a reminder of the blood and gold his captor’s took, he looked every part a Prince of the songs.

Supposedly, he had knowledge of sellswords in Essos who would sail to the west coast to approach and flank the forces of Lord Aleck Pyrce, Scion of the Hydra and Heir of Johann the Red Skull. Petyr had collected the whispers of strategy when he could, desperate to learn whatever he could of the war path.

Showered in the praise and fanfare of their subjects, the procession was a grand one, with many a wide eyed youth gazing up with dreams of glory of their own.

The young boy Parker was no different from those other boys in most ways, all starry eyed and wondrous toward the ranking nobility in light furs and supple leather more valuable than he’d ever laid his hands on. For him, however, it was more than just the riches and glamour of royalty he witnessed, for young as he was he had a keen eye for many things.

One of those things just happened to be Anthony himself, sat astride a powerful, roan mare, the colors of house Stark draped upon her flank, one of the King’s own equestrian line of warhorses. Petyr of the unimpressive house Parker watched his Prince with fascination borne of the deepest admiration, of dark desires boys have in the night, and his own impossible aspirations to greatness. He was a sharp boy, no doubt, capable of a good lot more than his station allowed, but he was still a boy, fresh faced and untried, as much as he craved the idea of gaining that sort of recognition.

Sitting astride a dappled steed at Anthony’s side was a man equally as impressive, one which certainly caught the boy’s attention. The banner above him depicted a sun setting from behind three hills, a purple sky above the green earth. For a moment he almost felt as if he met those shockingly blue eyes, reminiscent of a Stormlander the likes of which he’d never seen, but surely it was by accident, and he flushed greatly to even presume to have caught the eye of someone so obviously important.

Still, his young heart soared at the procession, and with his small, lithe form he was able to push to the front of the crowds lining the path, all wide brown eyes and brilliant smile as he just avoided being trampled by the horses. His voice caught in his throat, and he felt stupid for a moment, unable to properly cheer the war party on, and yet when Prince Anthony’s dark gaze landed on him with a tug of a smile, he only felt himself heat up in a way he never had before, jaw slack until those eyes moved on to the next maiden.

Perhaps it should have been telling that he insisted to himself that the warmth in that gaze was lesser toward those girls than it had been when it met his own. And still, it wasn’t something that he really addressed until much, much later.

Such as when assassins came for the reigning Starks, slipped right past the Winterfell guard and mercilessly slaughtered the royal family in their sleep.

They all mourned that day, but none so much as Anthony himself, notified on the battlefield on his way back from a victory against the ostensibly named forces of the Hydra’s next generation, Johann the Red Skull having been defeated by the late King. They’d won. But at what cost?

Petyr himself had lost his parents in that battle, delegated to the custody of his aunt and uncle, and yet the war was still on in force. A Stark returned to Winterfell, but the battle only became more bitter after that, more ruthless. Anthony lost himself to his grief, for a time, and the young boy’s heart wept not just for his own family but for that of the Prince, filled with vengeance and rage and any number of other things he couldn’t fathom. The man’s very countenance as he rode back into the safety of Winterfell the following fortnight was nothing short of devastating, looking more as though he’d lost the war than won it. Despite his youth, Petyr had felt the somber airs of the moment, hadn’t tried to catch Anthony’s gaze a second time.

It was a selfish notion. Proving himself was the dream of youth, not something that was feasible or something he should aspire to. Especially not with the way the new King sequestered himself in his quarters and refused to hold court for months. The full moon of House Stark’s sigil hung over the King’s throne, but no dire wolf came beneath to complete the likeness.

Despite it all, the boy was stubborn, determined to be of worth to his King as he strove to better himself and increase his skills all by himself, no formal teacher to speak of. He watched the boys who trained as squires, watched the knights as they practiced on the field, calculated their movements and crafted his own sad little weapon of wood with which to mimic their movements. He danced the dance, clumsily and persistently in the hours after dusk between tending the fields and answering his aunt’s call for supper, hiding his toy sword beneath the hay in the stables and waking before dawn to start again.

More than anything, he wanted to be able to chase the shadows from his King’s eyes, to see the mirth and vigor he’d seen when Anthony had first left on the warpath for their freedom and unification. He knew too much, knew how brilliant the man was, Master of the Iron Legion, a prodigious smith, and the need to contribute to that boiled in his blood.

Petyr knew perfectly well that he was a bright boy, knew that given the opportunity he could create incredible things to serve the crown. The last thing he ever thought was that he might actually someday serve Anthony the Iron personally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.


	2. Heavy Lies the Head That Wears the Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A bit of wisdom you told me once, perhaps? One night’s joy is morning’s sorrow.” He tilted his head slightly and flicked his extended hand for emphasis. “You thought it very clever at the time.”
> 
> “Mm. No. Doesn’t ring a bell, you must be thinking of someone else, perhaps my _dead father_ ,” came the swift, cutting reply as Anthony stalked forward, all prideful indignance and pain and seething anger. “And _you_ ,” he intoned with a barely restrained twitch of his lip, a pointed cocking of his head, and an accusing finger extended from around the neck of the wineskin with which he jabbed at the taller man’s chest, “are _out of line_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who really, really needed some Quentony, we got you covered.

The raven came after the evening meal.

Though the warpath was rough, they had triumphed in their latest battle, pushing the front closer to the Dreadfort. They were turning back toward Winterfell, or at least some of them were, Anthony himself included. It was cause for celebration, music and drink aplenty, their war worn group boisterous and loud and already well into their cups. Smiles wide and toothy on faces that showed the stains of battle with pride, they traded jeers and jabs, salacious stories of girls back home, and laughter.

Even the Prince’s nails were caked with blood and dirt, as he was never one to shy away from battle and was known to loudly proclaim that any noble in the North worth his salt would never stand idly on the sidelines while his people fought and died by the swords of their enemies. Yet his smile was as wide with genuine mirth as the next man’s, out of his armor and carousing with his men as though he weren’t the son of their King at all. He laughed all the way from his belly full of wine where he sat near the fire, dark eyes reflecting the flames and giving his rumpled countenance an even more wild look.

“-an’ when ‘e woke up, turns out she ‘ad more hair on ‘er lip than ‘e did!”

Another round of laughter tore through the group, and Anthony leaned conspiratorially closer to Quentyn by his side, wine sloshing in his cup. “Except that I’ve seen the miller’s eldest girl, a few times mind you, and he couldn’t catch her even if she’d been as drunk as he is now. I’d wager my father’s sword on it and you’d know better than to bet against me because, unlike him, _you_ my friend, are not an imbecile.”

But before Quentyn could reply, the raucous cry of the bird interrupted their storytelling, an anticipatory silence falling over them. Anthony waved his hand at them casually, grin full of teeth. “Well, don’t stop on account of me, go on,” he insisted, raven ruffling its feathers where it perched upon his forearm. “Back to that riveting tale of, what was his name, Domeric? Merigold?”

“Roderic, your grace“ someone helpfully supplied. He couldn’t see the man’s face with the fire crackling between them.

“Right, Rhododendron,” came the lightheartedly dismissive reply. Apparently the Prince was on about flowers, this evening. He offered the raven a scrap of meat before detaching the scroll from its leg and sending it off, noting the seal of House Stark with the cocking of an eyebrow. What could be so important they couldn’t wait for the war party to return to Winterfell? Anthony rolled his eyes at the thought that it was most likely some sort of minutiae he absolutely didn’t want to deal with tonight, but cracked open the seal nonetheless.

The way his jovial expression faded as his eyes scanned the parchment didn’t go unnoticed by the others, color visibly draining from his face as one by one they all elbowed their way around the circle and the silence became overbearingly heavy. The Prince’s chest grew tight and his stomach knotted. As desperately as he wished the letter to be fake, a matter of a stolen seal, he knew Maester Hogan’s handwriting as well as his own, and Hogan was a good man, not one to fall for bribes or trickery.

Anthony downed his wine in one gulp, then, and stood without a word, dropping the scroll at his feet and making a beeline for his tent.

 _Our condolences, your grace_ , the neatly penned script had said, _but in the wake of the tragedy that has befallen us in the night, we must urge you to return posthaste for your coronation. The North weeps for the loss of its King and Queen this day._

No, not Prince. He was King now, and suddenly achingly sober.

By the time Quentyn slipped into the tent after him, it was as if a maelstrom had run through it, table overturned and parchments scattered across the floor. There was a splatter of ink slowly creeping across some of the pages, and in the middle of it all was Anthony, glass in one hand, wineskin in the other, both of them shaking badly enough that his first attempt added a splash of burgundy to the black. The yell that tore itself from his throat was borne of rage and pain and nerves suddenly exposed and scraped raw as he hurled the glass in blind, exasperated fury, barely missing the young knight in his carelessness.

As quickly as the outburst had come, Anthony’s retreat into the task of emptying the wineskin down his gullet was nearly palpable, as though his grief could only be contained for moments at a time. He needed to be far more drunk, and he needed it _now_.

It mattered not whether the skin contained one of his finer wines or swill. So long as it did the job, the taste of it was inconsequential, barely even noted on the way down. He only stopped once none was left, shoulders slumping heavy as the sigh that fell from his stained lips. The dull thud of the empty wineskin hitting the floor was disturbingly distant to his ears.

Quentyn only stood in silence until Anthony finally seemed to realize he was there, eyes rimmed red but the dirt on his face yet uninterrupted by the tears he refused to shed. The fragile hold he had on his emotions shown in the firm set of his jaw, the way he held one fist in his other hand to keep them both from visibly shaking. The sole heir to Winterfell took note of the knight's countenance, the scroll of parchment held in his hand, the state of his clothing, but only met his gaze for a moment before casting about for another skin of wine.

It was an unlikely friendship, considering Anthony's father had been the one to strip House Becke of its land and titles, yet he could see on Quentyn's face that despite the sordid history between their houses, the knight had come to him open-hearted. Though similarly unarmored, the quality of their clothes spoke volumes of the gap in status, Anthony considered as he searched, the green and gray of Quentyn's more roughly hewn tunic lackluster and dull compared to the vibrancy of the red that was woven into his own, comfortable and soft and fine despite being for battle. He wondered if a hedge knight simply couldn't afford purple dyes.

“I’m sorry, your grace,” Quentyn murmured, but Anthony lifted a hand to silence him.

“Hold that thought,” he commanded, tone brooking no argument as he snatched up another wineskin. Tugging the cork free with his teeth, he took a long swallow, then gestured again. “Right, continue.”

“We can march at dawn, and march hard. We’ll have you home as swift as possible,” Quentyn finished, brows furrowing in increasing concern.

“Why? To appear eager to bury my father and assume my title? My _mother_? Or, oh, _perhaps_ so that the _great_ Lord Aleck might call us craven and send his two wards and their armies after our seemingly retreating forces?” Anthony snapped, unable to restrain the bitter edge to his words as they cut both of them.

Ser Becke moved closer, extending his right arm tentatively while with his left he held the letter to his chest. He gestured toward the wineskin.

“Perhaps that is not best for your reasoning. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, no?” he asked.

“ _Perhaps_ it’s none of your damned business and _certainly_ not your purview, Becke,” Anthony countered with a curl of his lip, bringing the skin back up for another drink in blatant defiance as he stepped back, eyes hard and shoulders tense. He knew perfectly well he was being antagonizing for the sake of it, but he couldn’t find it within himself to stop. The knight was merely a convenient outlet for his pain.

Quentyn pressed his lips together in a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “A bit of wisdom you told me once, perhaps? One night’s joy is morning’s sorrow.” He tilted his head slightly and flicked his extended hand for emphasis. “You thought it very clever at the time.”

“Mm. No. Doesn’t ring a bell, you must be thinking of someone else, perhaps my _dead father_ ,” came the swift, cutting reply as Anthony stalked forward, all prideful indignance and pain and seething anger. “And _you_ ,” he intoned with a barely restrained twitch of his lip, a pointed cocking of his head, and an accusing finger extended from around the neck of the wineskin with which he jabbed at the taller man’s chest, “are _out of line._ ”

Nevermind that they were close, or how well they knew each other. Anthony’s impulsive nature made him difficult to tolerate on a good evening, and this was definitely not such an evening.

Quentyn narrowed his eyes, and kept his ground, his concerned demeanor taking on an edge of anger. He placed a hand around Anthony’s wrist, slow but purposeful. “I’m not like your other subjects. I’m not afraid of you,” Quentyn answered, his voice low. Anthony stiffened, and the knight’s eyes met directly with his King’s in further defiance. 

“You _should be_.”

It was treason, plain and simple. Anthony would be well within his right to slay Quentyn Becke where he stood for even staring him down, let alone laying a hand on him. Frigid ice battled boiling pitch as his finger curled back around the neck of the wineskin, eyes dangerous despite the clear indication of how much he’d had to drink. All at once he jerked back out of the knight’s grip, refusing to break their gaze as he managed to both take a drink with one hand and draw his sword with the other, the tip leveled at Quentyn’s throat.

Anthony made to advance, intent on forcing his so called friend to step back, but the overconsumption of wine and the grief made him too slow, too unsteady. Quentyn drew his blade with a shrug, knocking the King’s sword from his hand before the man even had a chance to strike.

“Bold words, Stark,” Quentyn answered with a sneer. In the King’s state, it was easy to get the better of him, easy enough to put him off balance and set him back on his heels with a boot to his stomach.

Predictably, Anthony stumbled, the sound escaping him wholly undignified as he toppled to the ground, wine still dumbly clutched in his fingers. The impact punched the breath from his lungs, leaving him dazed and winded. Ser Becke smiled again and wet his lips, briefly assessing his fallen opponent before his eyes flicked back to the wineskin. He moved swiftly. The King now found himself the one with a sword to his throat as Quentyn knelt over him, ready to lean his weight into the blade at a moment’s notice.

“You know, regicide really isn’t a good look on you,” Anthony quipped, a little breathless, though his eyes betrayed the very real fear that he felt in that moment, caged between the knight’s thighs. He didn’t dare move, aside from subtly craning his head away from the blade, throat bobbing with a thick swallow.

Quentyn did not deign to reply. Rather, he drew the blade back, then drove it forward swift and merciless as Anthony flinched automatically, bringing his free hand up to shield himself as though it would stop a blade. There was the sound of steel through leather, but the pain never blossomed, the slowly pooling liquid beneath him the same temperature as the air instead of the hot spill of blood, the sharp, fruity smell thick in his nostrils. One eye opened, then the other, and he wheezed out a laugh that was void of amusement. Quentyn’s sword was inches from Anthony’s face and driven through the skin he still clutched, wine soaking into the dirt slowly, a visceral, deep crimson.

The knight’s attention shifted from the sight back to Anthony, their bodies close and hot from the brief struggle. His anger had now given way to smug bemusement, but as he stared Anthony down, the King thought he saw something else in the icy gaze.

“I should have you executed,” Anthony hissed out, though the statement lacked a good deal of conviction considering the way his heart was hammering in his chest, the shock of fear still coursing through him. Wouldn’t it have been fitting if he’d followed his parents to the grave? The pitiful end of the Stark line?

He felt certain he was about to do something very, _very_ foolish.

“You won’t,” Quentyn answered simply. “But you will do what I want.” 

He made no move to retrieve the sword, gave his words only a breath to sink in, and then he was leaning down, hands moving instead toward the throat that was still bared for him. Anthony’s eyes darted back and forth, trying to make sense of it all, but as calloused thumbs slid over his pulse points and it stirred something within him, he finally understood the look he was being given, the slight part of the knight’s lips.

They met halfway, nothing soft about it as Anthony buried his hands in Quentyn’s hair, mouth opening on a gasp as fingers squeezed around his throat. Quentyn’s tongue took advantage of the opening as if he’d done it on purpose, and Anthony really thought that he must have when the pressure was released enough for him to suck in a breath through his nose before tightening again. Very foolish indeed, because he only fought for control over the kiss for a moment before giving in, exactly as he’d been told he would.

Very, _very_ foolish, because this already seemed like a fantastic idea to his wine addled mind and his stiffening cock, and because when his body arched beneath the knight he felt a hardness that mirrored his own. Anthony only asked himself what he was doing once, before he set that thought aside for the rest of the night and immediately dropped his hands from Quentyn’s hair to push over the ass of his pants, gripping and pulling the taller man’s hips down into a grind. Thinking? Thinking was overrated right now.

Quentyn ground his hips harder in response at first, grunting as Anthony groaned into his mouth and tightened his grip. They broke apart on a shared gasp for breath, though the knight still held the advantage with one hand wrapped round Anthony’s throat, the other gripping his chin, thumb pressing against his lower lip. The King was too drunk to see what was _off_ in Quentyn’s smile, eyes dark and glassy but still defiant as his tongue, wine stained as his lips, pressed against the digit. 

“Now stop fighting it, and let me take care of you,” Quentyn urged, raising his hips in order to maneuver into a better position. The words alone stole the air from Anthony’s lungs, clenched something tight inside of him and snapped it. The huff of air he let out had nothing to do with the hand restricting his airflow, and everything to do with the idea of being _taken care of_. Not because he was born for the throne but because he was Anthony Stark, a man grieving, no different than any other in the eyes of Quentyn Becke. The concept was so jarringly foreign he nearly missed the next words, sharp and commanding yet not unkind. 

“On your hands and knees, your grace.”

It was a reminder perhaps that the man above him carried the blood of Kings, too, an air of dignity and presence about him that Anthony hadn’t noticed before now as he, for once in his life, obeyed.

His blood just happened to be the blood that lost.

Not that Anthony could dwell on such a thing, hearing the telltale shift of fabric behind him and wasting no time in getting his trousers to his knees, hands in the muck of dirt and wine and a perverse thrill coursing through him as he all but held his breath. So this was what it felt like to relinquish control, to be the same as any other, knees in the dirt like a commoner and powerless for all his power.

It felt like poison.

It felt _good_.

All he had to be right now was Anthony, not Anthony Stark of Winterfell, not King in the North, just _Anthony_ with spit between his cheeks and the searing, solid line of his friend’s cock sliding through the mess, his own hanging hot and heavy as his heart. The pain was cathartic, as if the way his chest had been split open was just being personified, and he dropped his head onto his clenched fists, teeth grit against the burn and the stretch. The alcohol could only do so much.

Quentyn grunted as he forced himself deeper, hands gripping Anthony’s bare hips possessively to keep him in place, nails digging crescents into sensitive skin. At least the knight wasn’t being brutal about it, considering that despite the trail of satisfied bodies Anthony had left behind since his wild youth, he’d never been on the reciprocal end of something like this.

“Oh my sweet King,” Quentyn sighed, and Anthony fought to steady his breathing the deeper he sank. “You’re taking to this so well aren’t you? I’ll make it good for you, I promise it.” It was condescending, obviously, and yet comforting. Anthony was no stranger to teasing, after all, and he knew it when he heard it. Somehow, focusing on that fact helped him relax further, though it only meant the last inch of Quentyn’s cock slipped in all at once, the feeling of the knight bottoming out punching the air from Anthony’s lungs on a choked sound.

“ _Gods_ you like to... hear yourself talk, don’t you?” he quipped once he’d managed to catch his breath enough, his only shame the inability to keep his voice steady for the entire line. Not that he was one to talk with his own silver tongue. Anthony huffed once more, shifting his hips with a wince. “Have to say I’m still... waiting on the _-ngh-_ good part.”

Quentyn moved his right hand from Anthony’s hip to coil around his stiffened cock, not yet dignifying him with a proper stroke while he pulled nearly all the way out, just to rock forward again, pace agonizingly slow. As he hit the depth of his next thrust he gave the King a squeeze, flicking the head with his thumb. On the next, the force caused the length of him to push through the knight’s firm grip, finally eliciting a moan. “Patience, your grace,” Quentyn teased, yet the slight strain in his voice belied his own wavering restraint.

“Winter will come before I do at the rate you’re going,” Anthony shot back on a growl, though the pain was beginning to give way to something else. Not quite pleasure, not yet, even if the knight’s hand on him was helping with that. It was making this bearable, at least until he managed to adjust, shifting his legs again as if it might help and inadvertently pushing his hips back against the next thrust.

“ _Gods_ -!” he choked out, completely against his will, vision spotting for a moment as his cock jumped in Quentyn’s hand. It wasn’t as if Anthony didn’t _know_ , but he’d never _felt_.

Quentyn chuckled at the exclamation, and the King groaned, shame burning his cheeks and twisting his insides. He could practically picture the satisfaction on the knight’s face, lip caught hungrily between his teeth as he watched Anthony Stark, most sought after man in the whole of the North, coming undone beneath him. It was clear that Quentyn’s control was slipping further with each thrust, evident in the quickening of his breath and the force he used, no doubt spurred on by the way Anthony couldn’t keep his hips still to save his life. He chased the pleasure, forged the pain into something that honed his edges like he would his finest blade. Their banter fell away, replaced only by heavy, panting breaths, rough groans and curses all accented with the slap of flesh as Quentyn only seemed to continue to drive himself impossibly deeper.

“That’s it,” he grunted, finally beginning to skillfully jerk his hand along Anthony’s length. They both shifted, and the King cried out again, fingers digging into the wet dirt as Quentyn pounded that same spot relentlessly. 

Thighs quaking, Anthony was simply _gone_ , all at once and without warning. The next thrust had him spilling his seed with a strangled sound, breath stolen and head spinning while the knight didn’t bother to stop or even slow his pace. It only drew the pleasure out longer, wrung him dry until every nerve felt like it was on fire and it was too much, but all Anthony could do was _take it_.

With Anthony’s pleasure had, Quentyn returned to holding him by the hips, sure to leave bruises. Too much, and yet Anthony could care less, accepted it as his pain made physical and only tightened his fists until filthy nails dug into his palms, teeth grit with every grunt while his cock went soft, spent. Finally, the man spilled himself, the King’s name on his lips as he did, and it _burned_ , but it was over, not the best but not the worst, and in Anthony’s self destruction he was sure to do it again.

And again.

The ache was starting to overpower the lingering haze of orgasm, Quentyn’s weight heavy against Anthony’s back, and only then did the knight finally push back, the sensation of being vacated a strange, foreign thing that sent a shiver down the King’s spine.

“Come here,” Quentyn sighed, wrapping his arms around Anthony’s waist with a care quite opposite to what they’d just done. Sated, tired, pliant, the King obliged, slumping into the knight’s lap where he sat just far enough away from the evidence of it all. He ached, yet he was numb at the same time, and wasn’t that the point? 

“I’m not leaving you alone tonight...” the knight assured him, or perhaps it was insisting, and though Anthony had half a mind to protest and demand his solitude, the warmth of the way Quentyn settled against him amongst a pile of furs, arm around his waist and breath against his neck was _nice_.

“You owe me a new wineskin,” Anthony groused, but it lacked any real bite as his eyelids grew heavy. The world still spun and he was undeniably filthy, but he cared not at all, not with the sound of his friend’s heartbeat following him into the blissful dark of a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here’s a moodboard for starker in this work I made!](https://66.media.tumblr.com/56b0ede79983f2a19b326aacd1ffb50e/41d097732ea99dca-0a/s1280x1920/02c7ac142e1289107c34808fe184fa5bfe3ade74.jpg)
> 
> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.  
> 
> 
> —CN


	3. Dream a Little Dream for Me (I'll Make it Real)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bell did toll in Winterfell, and the boy shook in his aunt’s arms, inconsolable and babbling.
> 
> “They’re dead, they’re dead I saw them-” his voice cracked, and he couldn’t possibly have known the way his aunt’s heart sank like a stone in her chest, because they _were_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter because it's sort of a transition chapter, but also an intro to Petyr's greenseer abilities, which is also kind of why it's really, really disjointed.

Petyr stood atop the wall overlooking Winterfell’s gate.

The sun was rising, bleeding the sky red like wine, the wind eerily calm. In the distance, he could see the banners of House Stark leading the warparty home, yet something felt _off_. The bell tolled, a hollow sound laced with a scream if he listened close, and when he looked down there were rivers of red snaking their way like tendrils from under the gate, out toward the incoming party.

He wanted to shout, but when he opened his mouth there was only the raucous cry of ravens and the frantic, over-loud beating of wings, a flood of black chasing through the red of the sky. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he turned, the image of a room he’d never seen searing itself into his memory because there, on the bed, Marya and Howland Stark lay dead, throats slit ear to ear and unseeing eyes wide and glassy. The scream trapped itself in his throat, bile rising with it, the smell of blood so thick it made him dizzy. Spinning away again, his nose caught the cloying scent of wine and honey, a rough whisper against his ear and the sound of a woman crying came to him as if he were underwater.

The grim set of Anthony’s features stained in dirt and blood stood out stark as his name and terrifyingly real unreal, perpetually backed by the red of dawn or dusk he wasn’t sure. Where one red soldier fell, another rose, the battle endless as the bodies piled high at Anthony’s feet and only kept coming. There again were the rivers of red, reaching out from the Dreadfort like a slithering plague held back only by brutal, vengeful rage. Beautiful, Petyr thought, seeing the determination etched into every vivid line of the man’s face, and when he blinked, the blood was wine again and the knight he’d seen riding out at Anthony’s side was there at his back. Red soaked into the dirt at their feet, a finely crafted sword planted in the center of it, the bodies gone but not forgotten, buried beneath the mound they stood upon.

If he were closer, perhaps he could hear what it was that the knight was saying to Anthony, but as he took a step, something caught at his ankle. He didn’t want to turn, but he was compelled to, weirwood ash burning his nose and throat so he couldn’t even smell the red sap dripping from his eyes like tears of the Gods as he fell to his knees among the dead. Again, Petyr heard the mournful wails of a woman, knew the voice to be his aunt’s because Ben Parker lay crumpled and broken and dying and no matter how hard the boy held him he turned to dust on a bitter wind. He wanted to scream himself awake from this nightmare, even while the Dreadfort burned and Anthony Stark wore the crown of war and death, the North bathed in blood.

His was the shrill scream of a child lost, but the weight of a weapon in his nimble fingers fell away as the world flipped upside down again and he found himself staring up, up into the bluest eyes full of everything he couldn’t comprehend. Nothing was right, but maybe it could be, and he steeled his jaw, pushed himself off of the ground and wiped the tears from his face, swung the blade.

But the balance was all wrong, daylight cascading into night and what was metal was now wood, his fingers raw and bleeding and still he pushed on until the crackle of leaves underfoot broke his concentration. Anthony’s eyes met his in the darkness and his heart stuttered in his chest, the smell of wine thick in the clearing, choking him, making his head spin.

“Your stance,” the King said, the sigil on his finger shockingly warm against the back of Petyr’s hand as he adjusted, a firm grip here, a kick of his toes there. “Go on,” he urged, and the small smile that played on his lips set something stirring in the boy’s chest. It was a shock, after the images from before, feeling far too safe, too simple, but he adjusted as directed, closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. The sigil burned against his skin like a brand, but it soothed him rather than startling him, the low timbre of Anthony’s voice at his ear a terrifying comfort, the scratch of his beard something else entirely.

Again, the world tipped, a hand on his wrist and another in his hair, words whispered with a heat he’d never known and candles burning low. A wolf howled and the moon hung low in the sky, brilliant and blue outside an unfamiliar window. There were flashes of blood, pain, things that made him shiver but nothing he could grasp other than the ghosts of too many hands all over his body, a feeling like drowning, winter. Everything flew past faster than he could comprehend, Winterfell quiet and empty, no, _deserted_ , Stark banners frayed and forgotten, a smile on King Anthony’s lips and a laugh that faded into nothing, whispers in his ear that he couldn’t make out and too many, _so many_ death knells.

Petyr woke with a scream, tangled in his bedding and sprawled on the floor, heart pounding and eyes wide and glossy with tears. The ringing didn’t stop, but it took him until May had her arms around him, rocking him and soothing him with her voice that he realized it hadn’t been a part of the dream.

The bell did toll in Winterfell, and the boy shook in his aunt’s arms, inconsolable and babbling.

“They’re dead, they’re dead I saw them-” his voice cracked, and he couldn’t possibly have known the way his aunt’s heart sank like a stone in her chest, because they _were_.

The King and Queen in the North were dead.

* * *

Less than a fortnight later, Anthony was crowned as the new King in the North.

* * *

By the new moon, Ben Parker had followed the Starks to their graves. The raven had woken Petyr from a restless sleep, perched on his windowsill and cawing its way into dark dreams with whispers on his skin and darker promises worming into his head.

That night, Petyr listened to the now familiar wails of his aunt with a heavy heart and red rimmed eyes as he fashioned himself a crude, wooden sword.

* * *

He felt eyes on him in the clearing for over a week before Anthony’s sigil burned against the back of his hand, voice as rough as the scratch of his beard.

“Your stance,” the King said, and Petyr shivered, took a steadying breath, and began again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.


	4. Spider in a Web of Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony smiled, and by the time wild eyes and a broad grin swung back around to search for him after a near flawless execution of drills, the King was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost feel like we should add mutual pining to the tags soon...
> 
> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.

Anthony couldn’t sleep.

It was worse than the time after he’d escaped imprisonment, because at least then he’d found a purposeful distraction in the forge, with glowing hot Valyrian steel and the whispers of ancient technique still skittering through his mind as he worked. And then the Hydra had made its move, and they had soon been drawn into war, earning him the kind of bone deep exhaustion and the satisfaction of victory that provided a dreamless sleep. Anthony was young, he bounced back, earned his father’s scrutiny and disappointment and shame despite winning his own glory and titles separate of the Stark blood in his veins. It didn’t matter.

Not until it _did_.

He slipped out of bed and dressed for the night’s chill, the room empty as he vacated it now that Quentyn had gone to tend to his own matters, things he didn’t tell of and things Anthony had no intention or care to ask of him. The King only left his chambers at night since they returned from that victorious battle, somber and in no mood to celebrate. Quentyn stayed for as long as he could, helped Anthony through the worst nights surrounding their return and the coronation, kept his mind on strategy, on the next battle, on _revenge_. 

When he couldn’t sleep, he wandered aimlessly on horseback, barely needing a hood to disguise himself with how in shambles he looked. Tonight, he could hear the direwolves calling, making his mount a little skittish, but only just. If they hadn’t silenced their howls in that moment, he might have missed the sound, wandering right by and out of earshot, but they had, and he heard it. A boy’s voice, sounds of exertion and frustration and the occasional curse, the thud of something solid into something else somewhat less solid.

Anthony didn’t know why, but he was drawn to the sounds, slowing his mount near the edge of a clearing and climbing down, spotting their source across the empty space.

Indeed it was a boy, and a young one at that, not even into the gangly stages of adolescence yet but so utterly concentrated on the way he was swinging the wooden sword in his hands that he didn’t even notice as the King drew near. Somehow, he was intrigued, entranced perhaps by the glow of the boy’s skin under the half moon, the sweat tracks trailing down his dirty but undeniably cherubic face. Anthony watched, saw the potential in his form, the determination in the crease of his brow that no one so young should maintain for any length of time.

But the North could be a harsh place, and they’d all lost something in the war already.

The boy swung again and stumbled, overbalanced, and Anthony didn’t think, only moved. His fingers wrapped firmly around one scrawny little arm, the other hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady him. Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d taken a knee, hand sliding down to the boy’s sword hand and wrapping his own around the smaller grip. “Your stance,” he said simply, face very nearly tucked in against dark, unruly curls that seemed in need of a little taming. Despite the silence between them there was little resistance as he brought that hand up to a proper angle, rose back to his feet and tapped the toe of his boot at the front of one ankle, the back of the other, turning one foot slightly with a subtle nudge from his own.

For the first time since his parents were murdered, Anthony smiled at another person, this child here in the woods in the middle of the night whose eyes were wide and awed but not fearful, jaw set with a determination he ached to understand. “Go on,” he urged, stepping back to watch as those fiery, dark eyes turned forward again in concentration, forms begun anew and with fewer faults already. A quick learner, and considering he knew of every squire and lordling in the vicinity of Winterfell, he knew perfectly well this boy had no formal mentor or training, which was all the more intriguing.

Anthony smiled, and by the time wild eyes and a broad grin swung back around to search for him after a near flawless execution of drills, the King was gone.

* * *

Anthony returned to that clearing the following night, though he remained just beyond the edge of it, shadowed and quiet with his mount tethered a far enough distance away that the boy wouldn’t hear. That night, he only watched, smiled to himself at the way the boy integrated what little he’d taught him the night before and improved for it. He left again without approaching, but slept with a measure of peace that night he hadn’t known in many days.

* * *

It became a habit.

Each night he slipped beyond the walls of Winterfell, found the boy in his clearing, watched as he practiced. When he saw that there was a clear impediment to his improvement, he emerged again, spoke little, but instructed well and simply, and the next night watched his minimal lessons bear fruit.

Whenever he watched the boy, he felt just a little bit lighter.

* * *

It wasn’t ten nights later than Anthony returned to that clearing, a purpose in mind.

Unlike before, he stood, watching as the boy practiced, stepping around him and offering pointers as he observed, and by the end, he’d drawn his own sword, challenged the boy to work against him. That had brought the most wide eyed stare he’d seen yet, and Anthony smiled, sword held easily and ready to lightly deflect any wooden blows. The smirk on his face was genuine, and he allowed himself to be backed up by the inexperienced foal, focusing instead on the set of his brow, the shift of his curls, the blatant focus in his honey brown eyes.

At the end of the night, longer than he’d stayed before and more than they’d interacted up to that juncture, he passed the boy his wineskin, a true smile playing upon his lips and a glimmer in his eyes under the full moon. “You’ve got potential,” Anthony said, the _more_ of it hanging between them as the boy took a careful sip from the skin and tried desperately to mask his distaste. “Train under me, I’ll make you a fine knight. I know you know who I am, I know your aunt alone can barely provide for the two of you. Let me help.”

The wariness in the boy’s eyes was clear, but so was the hope, the eagerness, the anticipation and wonder. Because yes, he knew perfectly well who Anthony was, knew from the first night and continued their nightly dance regardless. There was a fire in him that could not be extinguished, and Anthony hoped more than anything to fuel it.

“Petyr,” the boy finally said, resolution in his gaze as he started to hold out his hand, only to falter, instead dropping into a knight’s kneel and presenting properly. “Petyr of house Parker, your grace, I will serve as you instruct.”

Something in Anthony’s chest swelled at that, and he couldn’t help the grin that crossed his features, eyes lingering on the youthful form as he considered his words.

“Speak nothing of this,” he began, placing a hand on Petyr’s shoulder as he looked up, startled. “I’ll be by soon, to speak with your aunt. Only then will I make this official, Petyr. I may be King, but I still have to be formal, after all. Hope you don’t mind. Training should start in a few days after that, I expect to see you bright and ready.”

The King leveled a stern gaze upon the boy at that.

“That means no more of this sneaking out at night business. You tend to your aunt, I’ll take care of the rest. So don’t let me catch you out here again, are we clear?”

For a moment, Petyr only balked at the words coming out of the King’s mouth, and he gaped like a fish until finally finding his voice.

“Y-yes. Yes your grace, I understand. Thank you, you grace, I can’t thank you enough, I-”

“It’s fine, boy, go home. Rest. I’ll see you soon,” Anthony interjected, seeing where this tangent was going, and with a hand on Petyr’s shoulder, directed him back toward the village on that side of Winterfell. “No more arguments,” he said with finality, giving the boy a little shove and turning on his heel to head back to his horse. He never looked back to see if Petyr obeyed or not, because he had more important things to plan for.

One of which should never have been how to coax Petyr Parker into his bed.


	5. If Only it Were Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expression set and stern, he stepped back a pace, shifted his stance and presented his blade. If there happened to be one thing that always brought out the fire in Petyr, it was being underestimated, whether due to his age or his build, or even his attention span, because _King Anthony had said he was exceptional_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes hello just in case you were wondering where that Spiderio was coming in, I promise this isn't like a SUPER slow burn. Just a little. -TMS
> 
> So glad we could finally start to unleash the Nasty Man TM on Petyr. There will be more of him with Petyr! - CN

Petyr Parker was _exceptional_ , the King had said once, under his breath, perhaps not expecting for the subject of his praise to actually hear it. He had tried his best not to let his honey colored eyes look anywhere but front and center as his dance instructor forced him to hold a pose. Everything that Anthony set him to, he caught on quickly and then proceeded to excel at, with both an unyielding determination and abundant enthusiasm. The boy rarely had daylight hours to himself, but he didn’t mind, never complaining about the strenuous drills both in swordsmanship and etiquette. If he had any inkling of the _more_ of his education, he said nothing of it.

Even when the boy did have spare time, he often spent it studying and running drills, practicing his swordplay and reviewing whatever material he could get his hands on from the library, often by candlelight. It became a common occurrence for Anthony to wake him in the night when he’d fallen asleep at the table in the King’s study, candles guttering low. Sometimes Petyr thought that he saw something in the man’s gaze, something he couldn’t place in the manic flickering of the candle’s dying light, but Anthony would extinguish the poor wick with a little tutting sound and send him to bed wrapped in the cloying scent of smoke. Sometimes, he would feel the King’s hand on his lower back all the way into his dreams.

Growing was awkward, in so many ways, and so Petyr sought to counterbalance the aches in his bones with aches in his muscles, exchanging his sudden lankiness for extra practice. Now, despite being given the day off, he worked himself through his drills, focused, his curls unruly and more than a little damp from sweat. Winter was a long way off, yet, and he’d shed his tunic almost a half hour ago, because even in the North the sun still beat down upon him while he slid through the motions, drew pieces of the dance into impeccable footwork. Everything he learned, he incorporated, just as his King had told him to, whispering in his ear that he was _brilliant_ in a way that made him shiver, a way that clung to him at night when he was too hot to stay beneath the blankets.

The boy was so focused, he didn’t even realize he was no longer alone, a fault that his teachers tried so hard to train out of him. _You need to get out of that head of yours_ , they would say, and when they turned their backs Petyr would roll his eyes, because he’d yet to fail a test so they really didn’t have room to complain now did they? His senses were sharp enough that he never faltered in the face of an actual threat, but when the drills ended up becoming too easy, he’d always start to let his mind wander to something else, like now, and it was only when he spun for the next swing and caught a flash of green and steel that he realized what a mistake that was.

His swing had been parried, and above him now stood a dark haired man, beard walking the line between well groomed and a bit wild. There was a niggling sense of familiarity about the man, but Petyr couldn’t quite place it. Dressed in green with bright blue eyes, the man lowered his sword to the boy’s neck with a grin, teeth flashing sharp almost like a warning and temptation both.

“Looks like you’ve gotten yourself in a spot of trouble, boy,” he offered playfully, yet the blade still rested against Petyr’s skin despite the man’s light tone. There was something terribly dangerous about this man, and yet the boy knew he was safe, even though his mind was rushing through every way he could possibly escape such a position.

Breath quickened and face flushed, Petyr swallowed thickly as he stared up at the man, head inclined just enough to keep the point of the blade from biting into the vulnerable flesh beneath his chin. He looked something like a startled deer and a cornered beast, fearful but stubborn, fingers still clutching his sword and twitching with the itch to fight back. There were no alarms. That fact and the familiarity reassured him that this man was no intruder, despite the steel directed at him feeling almost like a true threat.

He licked his lips, throat dry. The position felt intimately familiar, suddenly, a hazy memory floating on dreams that smelled like wine and blood.

“H-have I, Ser?” the boy eked out, quieter than intended, unable to break the man’s gaze. He knew well to err on the side of formality and respect, even if this man wasn’t actually a knight, it was better than being too informal and causing offense, particularly when one had a sword at one’s throat. He also knew that his youthful looks were as much a weapon as the blade in his hand, one of his _other_ lessons that he had considerably less confidence in.

“On the field you would be dead,” the man sighed. “Or a hostage, if you were lucky.”

The man wet his lips in return at that, making a show of slowly scanning his eyes over the prone form at the end of his sword. His stare lingered at the boy’s groin before returning to meet honey brown eyes, and Petyr was young but he wasn’t _that_ young, not anymore. By now, his own gaze lingered occasionally on the King when nobody was looking, his dreams growing more detailed over time, and he would be a fool child indeed not to notice how attractive this man was.

“Ser Quentyn Becke by the way,” came that smooth voice, and the boy had the good sense to appear properly deferential instead of stubbornly defiant. He didn’t need a lashing for bad behavior, yet there was something about the knight that made him want to push his luck.

As Quentyn’s sword was returned to its sheath, Petyr took in a breath of relief, only hesitating a moment to take the hand that was extended to help him up. The knight had a strong grip, but then, he was incredibly small in comparison, so it would stand to reason that the difference in their strength would be considerable. His world spun a little at the abruptness of the action, but his education in dance allowed him to recover himself with grace, respectfully dipping his head as he straightened up.

“Petyr Parker, Ser, and begging your pardon, but I’m not on the field,” he replied, chin inclined not so much to suggest some manner of authority as to show that he would not be so easily cowed. It may have been a poor decision, but if this attractive knight wanted to humiliate a young squire in the middle of his private drills, he could at least defend his own honor against something so underhanded. Expression set and stern, he stepped back a pace, shifted his stance and presented his blade. If there happened to be one thing that always brought out the fire in Petyr, it was being underestimated, whether due to his age or his build, or even his attention span, because _King Anthony had said he was exceptional._

“But if you’d like to try me again,” he offered, challenged really, letting the words hang between them. Stubbornness and pride often did get the Parker boy into most of the trouble he happened to end up in.

Quentyn let out a single, brief laugh, and something in his demeanor darkened, making the boy swallow visibly, though he remained steadfast. He knew perfectly well it was a dangerous game he was playing now. 

“Are you offering me a taste, boy? ” the knight asked, once more drawing his sword. “You certainly are eager to end up beneath my blade again.”

“It’s only right to judge my skill fairly, Ser,” Petyr replied, more calmly than he felt, instinct and all good sense screaming at him to stop with this stupid stunt. It wouldn’t be the first time that he ignored both, pushing off his dominant foot and into a forward attack. Naturally, he already held the disadvantage in skill and experience, size and his own level of fatigue from the day’s training, but he gave a valiant effort still. The boy even managed to set the knight back a grand total of once before his next blow was parried easily, and the next as well.

Petyr knew the instant he’d miscalculated, mind quicker than his muscles, and though he got his sword up to block in time, he hadn’t been able to properly brace it, the power behind the knight’s blow resonating all the way down his arm as a painful sort of numbness followed. The blade fell from his aching grip, and he pulled his arm in close to his chest, flexing his fingers with a wince as Quentyn crowded him back against the stones, sword leveled just below the dip of his collarbone, a lethal strike point.

“On your knees, Parker,” he commanded, and the boy’s eyes flashed, darting to either side as if he could determine an avenue of escape or retaliation. There were none, and Quentyn knew it, that much was obvious in his gaze as the point of the blade shifted minutely closer, cold steel to bare skin causing a shiver to jolt through Petyr’s small frame, gooseflesh pricking along his arms.

The first answer to come to him stuck on his tongue, however, and something shifted in honey brown eyes, submitting. Petyr had wanted to tell this man that he knelt only for the King, and yet something about the way the knight looked at him drew his stomach tight, all but buckling his knees.

Down he went, obedient and sufficiently cowed, but perhaps more than a little intrigued, though he tried hard to mask it. The boy had no idea what Quentyn’s intentions were, but he knew when he was beaten, even if it stung. Really, he should have expected it, going up against a full fledged knight, but the humiliation at being knocked down the way he had been had burned too hot to stand down. Now, though...

“I yield, Ser,” Petyr admitted, voice laced with contrition but no small amount of disappointment in himself as he stared up at the knight along the length of his sword.

“That’s a good lad,” Quentyn hummed, not yet withdrawing his sword. “His Grace has trained you well, no?”

“He has, Ser, yes,” the boy replied, clearly taking pride in that despite being at the end of a blade. Careful, he continued to rub the numbness out of his hand and wrist, shifting on his knees from a restlessness he only just understood. Being told that he was good never failed to tint his cheeks pink these days, at least when spoken by King Anthony and apparently Ser Becke as well. Petyr was young, but not _that_ young, and no matter how unaware he could be, he also had a knack for making incredibly keen observations, something he had been told not to reveal so easily.

“And I should probably be getting back to that,” he ventured, fidgeting and once again wetting his lips at the fact that the knight still kept him in place.

“And I to him. I’ve already dallied enough on the way to his summons,” Quentyn answered easily, taking his fill of the view that was offered. Finally removing the blade from Petyr’s proximity, he gave him one last knowing grin. “I know the King well. In a few years he’ll teach you more than you can even imagine. Be ready for it.”

That cryptic statement hanging in the air as the knight departed, the boy thought of whispers in the dark, too many hands that burned against his skin, promises nobody could keep. When he finally got to his feet, his head spun with the phantom scent of wine and fresh dirt trampled after the rain by too many hoofbeats that pounded like his heart against his ribcage.

What he did with himself in his own bed to the memory of _on your knees_ was nobody’s business but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let us know how we're doing! We love hearing from you all!
> 
> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.


	6. Waste Not, Want Not, Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you’re not interested, I’m happy to settle for one of those lithe brunette boys you seem to be collecting,” the knight intoned, voice teasing as he gave a slight tug to the cloth beneath his hand when his hand wasn’t shrugged off. There again was the tick of the King’s jaw, the shuttering of his gaze, covered up quickly by the way he licked the remnants of wine from his upper lip and turned his body fully toward Quentyn, hand at the laces of his tunic.
> 
> “ _Collecting_ , am I now?” Anthony countered, lips curving in an easy smirk, the kind he used often to appease this Lord or more often that Lady. He tugged firmly on the laces, dragging the knight right back down into his space and holding there with mock affront. “My dear Barrowling, should I be _jealous_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So wow this chapter turned out pretty long, enjoy some Quentony! Their banter keeps us thoroughly entertained.

Quentyn poured his King another glass of wine. 

It was warm by Northern standards still, so the man had a thirst about him, though it was a near constant condition, really. Anthony reviewed his drawings, paying little mind to Quentyn’s intrusion as he’d grown accustomed to the man’s presence, despite how long he’d been away this time. The knight drank his own wine slowly, perfectly happy to savor the fine vintage Anthony took for granted as his blue eyes cast about the room.

Anthony’s quarters were not the worst they’d been, but the years of wine since the deaths of his parents had left him in a constant state of mild disarray. Stacks of plans and maps collected around the room and a few emptied wine bottles sat by the fire from the previous night. It looked more like the toll of a scattered mind than the heavy hand of grief. Quentyn leaned against the desk Anthony was stationed at, watching his calculations and adjustments as he worked.

“You keep so many pretty fawns about the Kingswood these days. I almost found myself poaching one,” Quentyn sighed.

The way the King’s pen scratched to a halt, no matter how subtly, was as telling a thing as the tick in his jaw, and finally he set it aside with a put upon sigh, letting the map he’d been reviewing roll shut with a flourish as he straightened and turned to actually face his friend. There was something unreadable in his dark gaze, something shuttered and guarded behind the ever present glaze of drink. Anthony didn’t smile as his eyes flicked over the knight’s form, one hand scrubbing over his beard and the other following it by tipping the glass to his lips.

“Fighting at the southern border, wasn’t it?” he questioned, blatantly avoiding the topic as he tapped a ring laden finger against the glass. “Sorry, that _was_ why you were here, right?” The not so subtle raise of his brows as he raised his drink again only added to the pointed avoidance. Anthony knew exactly what Quentyn was doing, had known him long enough to see his leading statements practically before he’d even entered the room. He knew exactly where this was going to go, and it wasn’t as if he wanted to avoid it, but he’d come to garner a certain amount of amusement from their banter.

The King also liked to taunt his friend, of course, and he did so with a casual sort of ease, quaffing the rest of his wine and setting the goblet aside as he approached Quentyn, stepped up into his space with his dark, hooded gaze until they were practically sharing breath. “Or was there something else you wanted?” he questioned, voice a low, sultry timbre he’d had so many years to perfect, one hand trailing down the knight’s arm.

Anthony’s fingers grazed along the back of the hand that held Quentyn’s glass, an insinuation, and he waited right until the very moment he registered the man’s response before the glint in his eyes was the only warning. He snatched up the glass and spun away with only a breath’s distance between their lips, halfway across the space and halfway through the drink in the blink of an eye.

“You have no shortage of wine in this castle, your grace,” Quentyn observed, to which Anthony simply cocked a brow. “You might as well take the time to enjoy it.”

“Oh, I do enjoy it,” came the quick response. It was with a very deliberate stare that the King proceeded to steadily drain the rest of his cup, all but daring the knight to say more on the subject. But Quentyn only stepped forward, placing a hand on Anthony’s shoulder as the empty glass was set aside on another surface littered in parchment and trinkets. 

“If you’re not interested, I’m happy to settle for one of those lithe brunette boys you seem to be collecting,” the knight intoned, voice teasing as he gave a slight tug to the cloth beneath his hand when his hand wasn’t shrugged off. There again was the tick of the King’s jaw, the shuttering of his gaze, covered up quickly by the way he licked the remnants of wine from his upper lip and turned his body fully toward Quentyn, hand at the laces of his tunic.

“ _Collecting,_ am I now?” Anthony countered, lips curving in an easy smirk, the kind he used often to appease this Lord or more often that Lady. He tugged firmly on the laces, dragging the knight right back down into his space and holding there with mock affront. “My dear Barrowling, should I be _jealous_?” There was the subtlest tilt of his head. 

“Your King getting a little too _old_ for you? Going to come here, to _my home_ ,” he continued, walking Quentyn back a step and keeping right with him, lips barely a hair’s breadth away, “eyeing up _my things_ ,” Anthony’s voice dipped lower, lips ghosting back toward the knight’s ear as he backed him up another step, “and think I’d really let you walk out on me?” he ended almost in a heated growl, tone rough in all the right ways. 

With the next step back Anthony took, Quentyn instead refused, knocking their shoulders together. The King stilled, if only in part because he’d known the resistance was coming. He may have been shorter, but he made up for it in stocky bulk, confident enough that if it really came down to a contest of strength he could hold his own perfectly well against the wall of muscle he knew was under the knight’s tunic. 

“I couldn’t say which of your boys it was, but the sweet thing was practicing in the yard,” Quentyn commented, leading, his voice matching Anthony’s low, lusty tone. “Clearly eager to kneel for me, too. You must break them in early.”

Again, the tick. Really, as good as Anthony was at dissembling, there were some things a knowing, watchful eye could catch in those split seconds before he reined himself in and smoothed over the filth beneath his skin with something more worthy of the public. There were plenty of thoughts that ran through the King’s mind at the notion of _breaking in_ those boys, and examining the reality of why he apparently was collecting them was something he would face another day.

“Even with his tongue lolling from his mouth, I thought it’d be rude to try him without asking.”

Quentyn’s words painted a very specific picture, voice sending a spark down Anthony’s spine straight to his groin. He’d done more than try a good many of them. Not so _early_ as the knight was suggesting, but one in particular he knew was still barely on that cusp of manhood, and the thought of _him_ being subjected to Quentyn’s proclivities (or even his own) left a sour taste in the King’s mouth.

“I doubt any of _my_ boys would have their tongues out for you, Becke,” he insisted, pushing aside the thoughts of Petyr that tried to take the forefront of his mind. 

“So you do lay your stableboys? Can’t say I blame you,” Quentyn retorted with an easy shrug. “All jests aside, though,” he continued, leaning in to softly kiss the King’s neck, “I’ll still take you as you are.”

Anthony would have scoffed and had something else to say to that, about how he absolutely did _not_ lay his stableboys (which would have been a complete lie), but Quentyn’s teeth grazed his neck and then the knight was biting down harder. The words died in the King’s throat, replaced with a mildly undignified sound as he at least made a show of still trying to direct the situation. It was all for naught, however, because Quentyn knew exactly how to make him weak in the knees with the way he sucked a mark into tender flesh.

“Damn right you will,” the King huffed, but it lacked the cocky edge he would have given it were the knight’s lips and teeth not working along the exposed portion of his throat. He swallowed thickly, finding his head enough to at least begin to blindly work open the simple fastenings of Quentyn’s clothing. They’d danced this dance before so many times now, Anthony could do it blindfolded in the dark, and after a moment he paused to tug the knight back by the hair, dislodging him from his neck only to crush their mouths together.

Quentyn met the kiss with a ferocity, not wasting any time before taking to using tongue, which was eagerly reciprocated. As the two of them kissed he placed a hand on Anthony’s chest and began to tease at the man’s nipple through his clothes, swallowing the sound he earned for it. Still, the King wasn’t quite ready to give in entirely, insistent on dominating Quentyn’s mouth as he tugged the knight’s tunic free of his pants and pushed his hands up the solid muscle of his stomach, taking fabric with him as he went.

“You know it’s hilarious you’d have patience in this where you don’t otherwise,” Anthony commented, teeth grazing Quentyn’s lip before he yanked the tunic off over the man’s head. He took the opportunity of having the knight’s hands and mouth away from him to regain a bit of his wits, giving the taller frame a good shove right toward the bed.

“You rush every pleasure as if it’s your last,” Quentyn replied, loosening his breeches as he went. Beneath his clothes the knight was half-hard, and Anthony could see it from where he stood to divest himself of his own tunic. The King didn’t exactly want the other man to know that he was the harder of the two just then, and so he left his own trousers in place as he stepped forward once more to close in on the knight.

“I want your mouth first. Show me I was foolish to look elsewhere,” Quentyn ordered from where he stood next to the bed, and Anthony bristled, if only for show. Placing his hands flat on the knight’s chest, he leaned in, eyes sharp with the authority he’d learned to wear well in the past years. For a moment, he simply let the silence hang, and then he was moving.

“Never should have let you in my bed, Quentyn, now look how demanding you are,” he chided, though his hands roamed lower on the knight’s chest and stomach. “Telling your King to bend the knee, to prove himself,” Anthony continued, even though he knew the game he was playing, couldn’t exactly hide the amusement in his tone as he sank to his knees and tugged the other man’s pants down just enough to free his cock.

“You know damn well looking elsewhere is foolish,” he insisted casually while taking Quentyn in hand in order to stroke him to full hardness almost as if in afterthought. “My dear Barrowling, you know nothing else compares to me, especially not the inexperience of a stableboy,” the King asserted, grin sharp and eyes sharper as he swirled his tongue once round the head of Quentyn’s cock and immediately swallowed him to the hilt.

The low groan he got in response was satisfying, as was the way Quentyn’s fingers curled around the back of his head to assert control. The entire point of their dance was centered around Anthony ceding control, after all, something he could never do any other time, and the King watched as the knight’s expression darkened with hunger, those fingers gripping tighter. Still, Anthony always felt a sense of accomplishment when he made Quentyn lose a little of that control, enjoyed pushing and prodding and testing the limits of the man’s patience and the depth of his depravity.

Now, with the knight’s hips thrusting forward and the hand at the back of his head holding him steady, Anthony relented to being used, swallowing carefully around the cock in his throat and humming his amusement at how quickly and easily a man could be reduced to little more than his prick. 

“My sweet King,” Quentyn sighed, his speech interrupted by a gasp that Anthony took great pride in, “this is just a warm-up… I want you sticky... with your own seed before I finish.” 

Pulling off to argue that he wasn’t so young anymore would just delay their mutual pleasure, so Anthony only applied his tongue to the task of keeping up with Quentyn’s thrusts while he worked open his own trousers to stroke his aching cock. The moans he made may have been a _little_ played up, but he knew the knight enjoyed seeing his King so debased, and it _had_ been a while.

Quentyn gave Anthony a knowing smile as he began to pleasure himself as well, one that was only briefly visible before his fingers curled in the King’s hair and gripped none too gently. Anthony’s eyes fluttered shut at that, and Quentyn took advantage of his loose jaw and open throat for his pleasure. Rather than spill down the King’s throat, he instead pulled back, drawing himself out of the warm, wet heat of Anthony’s mouth.

“Let’s get you to bed, hmm?” he mused, still flushed from the excitement of Anthony’s ministrations as he admired the man with a lopsided grin. “Get comfortable and I’ll bring you more wine.”

It wasn’t exactly a chore to do as suggested, especially with another drink at the end. For a moment, as he shed what little remained of his clothing, Anthony considered the fact that he was obviously being trained, rewarded for good behavior. Still, he’d determined years ago that if he ever became incapable of seeing it for what it was, he would put an end to it. After all, he was far too brilliant to be fooled by such tactics, he only went along with it for his own benefit.

Pushing some of the blankets aside, the King indeed made himself comfortable, propped up nicely against the pillows with his hands behind his head casually, legs spread and cock jutting proudly up from his lap. Anthony even went so far as to leisurely stroke himself under the knight’s watchful gaze, cocky, challenging grin curving his lips and glinting in his dark eyes.

“Well now, I’m here, but that’s strange... I don’t see my wine?” he teased, making a show of glancing around and gesturing with his empty hand.

Quentyn laughed as he finished pouring the man’s wine. “You don’t have to see it to drink it,” he answered, earning an exaggerated scoff from the bed. For that, the knight took a moment to untie and adjust the curtains, collecting the braided cords that normally held back the drapes. 

“Fair point, but one, wine still over there. Two, who said you could touch my things? What if I liked those drapes open? Lets the light in. Counterpoint to seeing, by the way,” Anthony returned, having nothing to do while he waited, patient even if he sounded impatient and imperious.

“Just close your eyes will you?” Quentyn continued unphased, laughter still apparent in his voice. Anthony’s jests still had their charm after all, even if they tended to be at another’s expense. For his part, the King rolled his eyes theatrically with an overly put upon sigh, but did as he was told.

“ _Yes, dear_ ,” Anthony drawled, returning both of his hands to the back of his head. Just for extra taunting, he bent his knees a bit, cock settling in along the line of his hip. “How am I supposed to catch you staring at my incredibly good looks now?”

“What else could I possibly stare at, _darling_?” Quentyn retorted, footsteps drawing near to the bed again before one of the corded ropes slid around Anthony’s wrists in the dark, followed by another. The knight’s breath tickled against Anthony’s neck as he leaned close to work the knots. Testing with a little tug, the King raised his eyebrows, but dutifully kept his eyes closed, a chuckle escaping him as he tilted his head in Quentyn’s direction.

“Well. I would say yourself, but clearly I’m the better option here. Do you think these are too loose? They might be too loose. Wait, no, not loose enough. I can’t hold my wine like this, we might have a problem here,” Anthony pointed out, mouth running in spectacular fashion while the knight double checked the bindings.

“Show me what a gracious King you can be, and indulge your poor Barrowling hedge knight with another type of game?” Quentyn pouted in response, obviously choosing to ignore the vast majority of what came out of Anthony’s mouth as per usual. The King was used to that, though, and he did so love to hear himself talk. Almost as much as he knew Quentyn did. He really had no idea how two such self absorbed men could end up in this situation, but he rolled with it anyway, always moving forward and desperately trying not to look back.

“If you don’t get on with it soon I might fall asleep like this, really comfortable you know. Little hard on the shoulders. Bit of a chill,” Anthony went on, face articulating just as much expression as if his eyes were actually open. “But I’m still waiting for my _wine_.”

Satisfied with the bonds, Quentyn brought the cup to Anthony’s lips, tilting it slightly as one would water for a patient in hospice. There was something distinctly demeaning about it, but the King didn’t say a word, only parted his lips to accept the liquid.

“Your wine, _your grace_ ,” the knight whispered softly, placing a hand on Anthony’s bare chest and idly stroking his skin while the man drank. “Better?” he queried, unnecessarily, rhetorically even, and the King actually did roll his eyes beneath his lids and offered a bit of an ambiguous grunt in return. As long as there was drink to be had, it was actually fairly easy to keep Anthony quiet to some degree, and a part of him sort of hated that Quentyn was tipping oh so carefully and _slowly_.

Quentyn tilted the glass, perhaps sensing Anthony’s frustration, further and further until wine began to pour down his chin. The King hummed a dramatic, mournful sound as he spread his lips a little wider, shivering at the trickle of liquid down his throat, pooling in the hollow of his clavicle, spilling down the center of his chest. As the last drops emptied from the glass, the knight dipped to catch the trail of burgundy, tongue cleaning his mess on the way up and coaxing a gasp from the King’s lips. He drew slowly up to the man’s lips and finished the gesture with another kiss, wine still thick on both their tongues.

Anthony answered enthusiastically, groaning in approval as he tugged against his bindings impulsively with the urge to grab Quentyn by the hair and drag him in. Instead, all he could do was put his tongue to good use, catching the knight’s lip between his teeth, but as their kiss escalated, growing more heated, Quentyn teasingly pulled back instead. The King craned his neck, muscles straining to follow, eyes finally opening just to level a dark and sultry stare at his captor.

“Satisfactory, I think, but we should definitely run more tests,” Anthony murmured, voice low and rough with his obvious desire. He ran his tongue over his lips slowly, catching the taste of wine still around the corners. “I know you’re not going to leave me like this because if you did, not even my utter infatuation with you would save your pretty head, so come on up. Come _here,_ ” he growled, sinking back into the pillows once more and spreading his legs a little further, cock bouncing with the shift of his hips.

Quentyn first coiled a hand around that eager cock, stroking slowly as he watched the King with amusement. As Anthony’s hips bucked in response, breath hitching, the knight increased his grip with a laugh, earning himself a petulant look. The King hissed as Quentyn’s fist tightened to the edge of painful, muscles in his jaw twitching as he reined in his immediate response.

“Ask without threatening my head, this time?” the knight answered, looking over Anthony playfully, his blue eyes flickering with amusement. The wine and his previous kneeling was only the beginning of their game together, and of course the King knew this well enough by now. Yet even tied down and aching he wasn’t ready to give in to Quentyn’s teasing so easily. He had more pride than that. This time, when his dark eyes rolled, it was wholly visible, and there was only so much he could hold himself back.

“Oh _forgive me_ , Ser Knight, I see that I was _far_ too _demanding_ for someone of my _humble_ station,” Anthony drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm despite the fact that the knight had the royal prick right there in his hand, at his mercy. “And here I thought you’d jump at the chance to shut me up, Becke.”

The knight rolled his eyes right back at Anthony’s melodrama, and the King snorted despite the attention to his cock. “I do like you quiet, but I prefer you moaning,” Quentyn decided, giving Anthony a final stroke before removing his touch and stretching. “Where do you keep your massage oil amidst all this?”

“Exactly where it always has been, did you forget already? Memory getting a little hazy in your old age?” came the answer, the King stretching a bit and biting back the urge to complain about the lack of contact again. He shifted against his bonds, but they held fast, a reminder that he wasn’t the only one in the room skilled with his hands.

Quentyn retrieved the oil, ignoring Anthony’s most recent jape as was the usual, returning to the bed in order to seat himself between the King’s legs. He started by coating each of the man’s thighs with oil and working his way up to the cusp of Anthony’s ass, the slick sheen weighing down the dusting of dark hair there. A sharp inhale was the knight’s reward as he began to probe between the firm globes of his King’s ass, adding a bit more oil for lubricant before rubbing at the sensitive flesh of Anthony’s perineum.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were trying to woo me, Becke. Are you trying to woo me? You really should’ve brought candles,” Anthony quipped, though the clear breathiness of his voice gave away his rising anticipation. The touch behind his balls felt as good as always, but his patience only stretched so thin, even if he was at Quentyn’s mercy. “Maybe a serenade? Why don’t you sing for me, sweetheart.”

“Tonight as you doze off, I’ll do it. The Maids That Bloom In Spring. Or perhaps the Lusty Lad. Though I have always thought your kisses are sweeter than spring...” Quentyn replied. He carefully slid the first two of his fingers inside Anthony after that, and it really had been some time since the two of them had lain together. Even one finger would have been uncomfortable, but starting off with two brought the burn to the forefront of the King’s attention, causing him to bite back a small hiss as he let his head fall back. Even now, Becke was the only one to have ever taken Anthony this way, though it was a secret the King hid from even him. He tried to put the significance out of his mind and relax for the intrusion, however, keen on the pleasure that followed.

“You’re about as gentle as ever, aren’t you?” he huffed, but there was no bite to it, only the clear, underlying notes of arousal and want in Anthony’s voice. In a way, it was a challenge, almost self deprecating in the way he needed to be forced into submission, into silence.

Quentyn let out a puff of laughter and probed deeper, gradually picking up the pace, blue eyes making a careful study of Anthony’s response. It was almost a tease, the way the knight’s fingers barely brushed that spot inside of him, and the King would’ve said as much if they hadn’t suddenly shifted, purposeful and direct. As Anthony finally let out a proper moan, hips jerking and eyes rolled back, those fingers only drew back out, leaving him empty.

Dark eyes settled on Quentyn’s face as the knight let his tongue flick over his lips, hands shifting to the backs of Anthony’s thighs in order to reposition his hips and expose him further. Shooting his King a smirk, he crept forward, slotting himself on spread knees between the man’s thighs and all but pulling him into his lap. Anthony could feel the thick cock pressing against his hole, and Quentyn shifted his grip again, scooting the last bit forward to press himself inside.

“I’ve missed this, your grace. I’ve missed how sweet and docile a proper coupling makes you,” Quentyn hissed, back arching in pleasure as he further slid inside, Anthony’s toes curling as he let his head fall back. “My fierce King, so soft beneath his armor.”

Hands clenching in their restraints, the King rocked his hips against Becke’s grip, hooking his ankles together around his waist and pulling to get the knight even deeper. “And nothing will ever dampen your immense humility, will it?” Anthony retorted, breathless, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his lashes fluttered, throat bobbing with a heavy swallow. “Also very, very not soft right now you know, you should- _ngh-_ maybe have let the light in after all if you can’t tell that,” he added, a clear deflection from the vulnerable state he was in. They both knew it, the shift of the King’s hips only bringing that point home. _Move_ , it said. _Shut me up if you think you can._ _Hurry and tighten that grip on the reins before I get away from you_.

“What if one of your boys were to climb the towers of Winterfell and spy us like this? Better to keep the drapes closed,” Becke teased. “I thought you prefer this being our little secret.” Hips thrusting deep, he drew close to the sensitive spot inside Anthony again, making the King suck in a breath. Despite their time apart, the two of them fell into unison in their motions easily, Anthony pulling Quentyn closer at the height of each movement, leveraging the strength in his legs.

“Not that- I’d mind sharing one of them... If you’re up to it tomorrow, we could go for a hunt... then skewer your stable boy from each end,” Quentyn suggested, his casual banter interrupted by heavy pants. The thought both turned Anthony’s stomach and made his cock twitch, leaking against his hip where it bounced with the knight’s thrusts. He couldn’t help but groan, the quickening pace stealing the words from him and almost making the idea sound perfectly reasonable.

“ _Gods_ ,” the King moaned, eyes slipping shut as he bit his lip, forcing himself harder, faster down upon Quentyn’s cock, motions practiced and skills honed throughout the years they’d known each other this way. It was impossible not to conjure the image of Petyr, so young, all bright, smooth, doe eyed innocence, the blush that would spread across his cheeks at the vaguest hint of praise. The boy had no idea how sinful he looked, shirtless, sweaty, flushed from training, bent gracefully in a dancer’s pose while Anthony had to restrain himself from palming his aching prick right in front of him.

Like this, there was no denying that Anthony Stark was a terrible man with a sick desire for his young squire, though with as many lithe little brunettes as he kept around, there was no way for Quentyn to know just which it was he fancied. Still, to actually give in, to share one of them with the knight, it felt like it would be a line he couldn’t uncross, carefully built defenses crumbling as surely as his resolve was now under Becke’s unrelenting pace. The King cursed and he writhed, demanded to be touched, begged when that didn’t work, undone by the knight’s attentions, pupils blown wide with lust and need as he brought the weight of his gaze to bear, wrists rubbing raw from how hard he was struggling against the cords that held him.

“Unless you’d rather enjoy that pretty thing- I saw pouring your wine before?” Quentyn continued, teasing rather than giving in to Anthony’s pleading. “A bit on the scrawnier side compared to the others, but very pert looking… and such a pink mouth he had.” Wetting his lips slowly, the knight finally curled his fingers around Anthony’s cock, voice dropping to a hungry snarl with a particularly brutal snap of his hips. “Do you ever make them pleasure each other..? If I had as many as you do, I don’t think I could help myself.”

 _Of course not_ , Anthony wanted to say, but the sorely needed attention to his cock only allowed a broken moan past his lips instead. He hadn’t, but that was because his lust for Petyr was for him alone, not for some convoluted fantasy of a young lookalike orgy. The King cursed breathlessly, feeling his balls drawing tight as his release drew closer with every stroke of Becke’s hand and every thrust directly into the spot that made his vision swim. Despite the depravity of the knight’s words, he spilled his seed without further warning, jaw slack on a gasp as his thighs tightened around Quentyn’s hips, urging him deeper as he rode it out, Petyr’s pretty pink lips parted in surprise burned into the backs of his eyelids even while he gasped his Barrowling’s name instead.

Quentyn withdrew his now sticky hand and placed it to Anthony’s slightly parted lips. “You’ve been so good for me, I’ll have you out of these restraints in no time, sweetling,” he hummed as the King dutifully began to clean his fingers. For all of Quentyn’s self-absorption, he always preferred to make Anthony spill himself first, something that had never gone unnoticed. “I’ll make sure you’re well cared for after as well. I can’t have his grace going about with sore wrists.”

Still breathing heavily through his nose, Anthony kept his gaze on Becke’s face, muscles twitching with the aftershocks of his climax as he clenched around the knight’s cock. His wine stained tongue traced each finger, knowing full well what the act did for Quentyn as he sucked those fingers into his mouth, drew over each knuckle even as the sensation of still being fucked into slowly started to become a little too much.

Quentyn shuddered as Anthony lapped at the last of his seed. The man’s chest and stomach had flushed red, sweat beading down heated skin. “That’s it, darling,” the knight hissed, thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his pleasure. Before long, his hand was dropping away, gripping Anthony’s thigh as the King felt the telltale heat of release spilling inside of him, held deep as his hips twitched.

Anthony groaned shakily as Quentyn pulled himself out from beneath his thighs slowly, carefully lowering him back to the bed. His legs screamed relief, followed by his lower back, and only then did his arms finally decide to protest being held in position for so long. Licking his lips, the King sighed, limbs both stiff and loose all at once, sated enough to remain silent for now as his thoughts swirled around in the hazy aftermath of orgasm. 

Quentyn untied Anthony carefully, placing tender kisses along the King’s sore wrists. Once both arms were free, he took to massaging the blood flow back into the limbs, placing a quick kiss on Anthony’s forehead before he began to sing softly. Shooting the knight a slightly wry look, the King straightened up against the pillows, stretching his arms and letting out an exasperated sigh.

“Oh lay my sweet King down in the grass,” Quentyn recited, and it wasn’t the first time Anthony had heard him sing, the both of them often joining in on bawdy songs around the fire while they were on the warpath. “May only summer come to pass.”

Anthony rolled his eyes, reaching for the knight and pulling him in for a kiss that was neither rough nor hurried, both as a means to shut him up and a way to express the unfortunate affection he felt for the other man. When their lips parted, he held up a finger to Quentyn’s, though he couldn’t quite hide the amused little quirky grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Much as I adore your voice, turtle dove, _stop_ ,” he murmured, kissing Becke again. “Bring me something to drink and then bring your sassy ass back up here.”

A full bottle of wine later found Anthony curled into Quentyn’s side, blankets haphazardly draped over their naked forms. The knight’s fingers rested gently twined in the King’s hair, limbs tangled as they slipped off to sleep. Quip as he might, Anthony knew that come morning he’d be more rested than when Quentyn wasn’t here, considering that he never allowed even the pretty brunettes to linger in his bed after coitus.

Call him a fool, but he truly did trust Becke in ways that he trusted no other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.


	7. Ward Against the Chill With Flint and Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Go ahead, Pete,” Anthony replied to the unspoken question in the boy’s eyes, though his voice was ever so slightly tight. He didn’t have a good excuse for denying Quentyn his request, even if he could see the ulterior motives as easily as his own armor stood out on the battlefield. “Help our sad little knight here out of his armor so he knows what he’s missing.”
> 
> Quentyn laughed along at the King’s jest while Anthony gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, both men gravely aware of the message beneath the teasing words. _You know damn well I don’t like to share my things._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMS: If there are formatting issues here I'll fix them in the morning lol
> 
> CN: meet me in the endnotes lol

The days grew shorter, the nights longer, and the words of House Stark spread like the impending chill over the land. Anthony watched it from the ramparts of Winterfell, and Petyr watched it in his sleep, shadows stretching over them all far too quickly to be real. He saw blue eyes in the dark, heard the steady drip of what was most certainly not water.

Winter was coming.

Petyr could feel the chill in his bones long before the first leaves began to turn, a sense that left him with ice in his veins and more blankets than made sense this early on in the seasonal shift. It was to be his first winter, as he was born in the midst of a long summer, but it wasn’t the cold that had him shivering at night.

As the harvest season neared, it seemed only fitting that Winterfell held a tourney, especially considering the last time had been when Anthony’s parents were still alive. The King spared no expense, the festivities bawdy and extravagant and well in line with his flamboyant nature, just as much a testament that he was as resilient as ever as it was to the strength and prosperity of the North as a whole. Indeed, the Northern folk had come from far and wide, one border to the other to participate in the rousing occasion, a fete to bolster them all before the hard work of the harvest was upon them.

The feast was plentiful and the wine ran freely, Anthony’s own personal stores tapped into for the event. The banners of sworn houses waved brightly in the crisp, cooling air, laughter, and chatter filling every corner of the keep and spilling out beyond its gates. Despite being called an opulent fool by some, Anthony knew that the people would well remember his generosity in these trying times, his smile wide and genuine as he overlooked the jousting lanes from astride his steed. 

Indeed, the King had declared himself one for the joust, never the type to back down from either a challenge or a chance to show off in his Valyrian steel armor, its gleaming red patina known throughout the North and beyond and instantly recognizable. Few men dared ride against their King, the claim of treason a serious one, but those that stepped forward either rode hard and true or were men of the illest repute. There was little in between.

The final round had pitted the King against a knight going by the title of Mysterio, his spherical helm giving little clue as to his identity, though anyone who knew who Anthony kept close would surely recognize the knight’s battered vert armor and the symbol of an eye upon his shield. The theatrics were obviously just for show, but Anthony’s heart still beat a little faster as he rode against his friend, the two meeting blow for blow and clearly evenly matched. He smiled beneath his helm as they lined up for their third exchange, the crowd holding their collective breaths as their horses stamped at the earth and tossed their heads before the charge. This time, Anthony didn’t hold back, unseating the knight swiftly to the roar of the crowd in the stands.

Among that crowd stood Petyr, who watched with bated breath, worried unnecessarily for the wellbeing of his King. The confidence, bravado, and charm in Anthony’s easy grin did nothing for the boy’s nerves, though it predictably set a good number of girls nearby to tittering. Indeed, the King in the North was ostensibly unwed and without an heir, young, handsome, and with quite the reputation above and beyond his list of titles. Surely they were all hoping to catch his eye before the tourney’s end. When he lifted his helm to smile their way as he spread his arms wide as if to rake in their applause and praise, Petyr was surprised that none of them actually fainted on the spot.

A heavy sigh of relief was drowned out by their cheers, the King's ward visibly relaxing on the sidelines. He hovered, unsure, largely unnoticed while struggling with an internal debate on the proper time to step forward to attend to his duties while the downed knight was attended to by a dark-haired Septa and a thin bard that seemed to be a part of his company. For a moment, the three spoke amongst themselves, until Anthony dismounted and stepped forward, his grin never faltering.

“ _Mysterio_ , was it?” he called, gaining their attention. “Think I prefer your old helm to this one, feels a little gimmicky, but I’ll bite, man of mystery and all that for the crowd. Come on, then, let me see that face of yours you’ve deprived me of for so long, _Ser Becke of the Barrows_ ,” the King added, grin quirking a little more toward a smirk. Of course, the formality was only a show for the crowd as well, the look in his eyes far more reminiscent of their old banter.

Only as the knight removed his helm did recognition finally dawn on Petyr’s face from where he stood as Anthony’s diligent shadow, and suddenly the boy was even more nervous than before. Neither his looks nor his fidgeting went unnoticed as Quentyn waved to the crowd to match the King’s theatricality, his own grin sharp and dangerously charming. It truly had been some time since Anthony and Quentyn had crossed paths, let alone shared a bed, but the latter was not common knowledge and so, for now, the knight was forced to play the part of the loyal subject, a very different tune to the one they danced to in private during their long campaign against the Dreadfort. 

It wouldn’t do for the public to know just how happy their King was beneath a knight’s boot. 

“You may call me as you like, your grace,” Quentyn said, voice laced with genuine respect he seldom gave Anthony when they were alone. Once the crowd’s eyes had turned more their games could resume, but not before. There was something thrilling about their usual dance being so public this time, a risky exchange that darkened the King’s eyes as if barely any time had passed with them apart at all. The few public flirtatious jabs between them would be something deliciously forbidden, masked beneath the pretense of long and tested friendship and loyalty, but for now...

“Of course I may,” Anthony retorted easily, reaching to grasp Quentyn’s forearm in good sportsmanship for a joust well fought, and a win well earned. “I’m the King, I do what I want. But anyway, there’s the matter of your prize, seeing as I’ve got no use for the laurels, kind of have my own already,” he intoned, gesturing casually to his own head. Behind him, Petyr shifted from one foot to the other, awkward while he waited but trying valiantly to be subtle about it.

“We can speak later on my prize, your grace. Your squire has an urgent look about him,” Quentyn mused. “Wishing after your health, no doubt.”

The boy in question started at having been caught fidgeting, eyes wide and lips parted slightly in surprise. He didn’t miss the sly look the knight shot him, however, a flush rising to his face as he tried to compose himself. It would have been impossible not to remember the encounter he had with Ser Becke all that time ago, and by that look alone Petyr surmised that the knight remembered it as well. 

“A-apolpgies my grace- I mean your grace! Ser,” the boy stammered, clearly mortified by his own mistakes. He held up his hands and shook his head, face scarlet all the way to his ears under the scrutiny of the two men. As if it might force the blunder to be forgotten sooner, he continued on quickly, though the formality seemed to sit uncomfortably on his tongue. “Please pay me no mind, I-I didn't intend to interrupt.”

Ducking his head, he hoped that the length of his somewhat unruly curls could hide his embarrassment at how badly he'd executed that.

“You’re welcome among us, boy. You served your King well. A loose knot or a wrong buckle can be a man’s end in the lists,” Quentyn offered, though Anthony eyed him briefly, remembering the knight’s interest in his stable boys all too well. Sometimes the man’s smile hid something far darker, a fact he was well acquainted within their time together.

“He’s right, Pete, you did great today, couldn’t have done it without your keen eye,” the King declared, hand clapping down on the boy’s shoulder with a fond familiarity. “Help me out of this and see if you can spot my cupbearer, I haven’t had a glass in...” he squinted up at the angle of the sun. “Gods, two hours? What do I pay that boy for?”

A shy but eager smile made its way onto the young face, along with even more of a flush at the praise sent his way. The boy had to stifle a laugh at the King’s antics, tearing his gaze away from the two of them and casting it downward. They were terribly handsome and he happened to be of that age, which didn’t make any of this any easier as he dipped his head to Ser Becke and then to his King.

“Yes, your grace,” Petyr acknowledged, snapping out of his embarrassment in order to jump to his task. He worked quickly and efficiently, a smart boy with undeniable attention to detail and a knack for understanding the unique intricacies of King Anthony's incredible armor. He picked up quickly anything he was set to, and though terribly awkward and not necessarily comfortable with the etiquette of the court, he was both polite and diligent as well.

In short, Petyr did his best not to embarrass his King with his behavior and sometimes failed, often in hilariously spectacular fashion, though it happened less often these days. How he hadn't been executed yet was honestly beyond him, even with the stubborn effort he put forth to make up for his shortcomings.

Delicate, nimble fingers that seemed almost better suited to the brush or the harp flew over clasps and fastenings with practiced ease and a reverence perhaps beyond what should be expected. Without halting, Petyr's head snapped up with a sharp whistle and a subtle inclination of his chin as he locked eyes with the cupbearer. It was clear that he was far more comfortable with a task before him than he was with people.

Anthony let Petyr work around him, deferring his movements to the boy’s practiced hands as he considered the knight’s wandering gaze. He and Quentyn had a complex history, of course, and knowing Ser Becke he would happily drag a boy like Petyr into their sordid dynamic.

The King had done his best to protect the boy from the troubles of the realm, but there was only so much to be done about it while making sure he wasn’t kept naïve. Still, he’d managed to at least protect Petyr from the worst of it all, despite the grave temptation the boy presented as he came into manhood.

Anthony had managed to protect Petyr from himself and his own filthy desires.

No matter how much he’d hoped his infatuation with the boy would pass, it never had, and in the end, he’d been forced to admit to himself why all of his stable boys and even his cupbearer were lean, fair-skinned, and brunette. Quentyn hadn’t been wrong, he just hadn’t quite understood the precise reason for his so-called “collection”.

While Petyr worked, the two men locked eyes, and a tendril of possessiveness curled in Anthony’s gut. He could all but see where Quentyn’s mind was going, and oh, but he certainly didn’t like it. There was that tick of his jaw, and he shifted again, allowing the boy to remove the final pieces of red from over the top of his far more subdued surcoat.

True to the King’s genius, in the end, the armor took up surprisingly less space than one might have thought, pieces and panels fitting together in such a way that the entire suit became much more compact for traveling and storage when not on display. As Anthony’s mentee, Petyr was one of a very select few individuals that even knew how it all functioned, a secret he was terribly honored to keep.

“He’s very good. Practiced. How old are you, boy?” Quentyn asked as the armor was carefully and quickly stored away, though Anthony recognized the unspoken questions there, jaw tightening again as he sniffed, a twitch of his upper lip. No. He didn’t like this one bit.

Startled, honey brown eyes flicked up once more to the knight's face, dropping just enough to avoid eye contact before looking back to his work.

“Old enough, Ser,” Petyr replied without thinking as he situated the armor in its chest for transport back to the armory. He only realized what he'd said as the heavy lock clicked into place, freezing in place as he felt the heat rise once more up the back of his neck. He'd gotten far too used to the King's level of familiarity with him, it seemed, too often forgetting all of the other formalities.

Quentyn raised his eyebrows with a playful shrug in the boy’s direction as Anthony blinked his surprise, almost pulling his cup away before the poor cupbearer was done pouring. He needed about six more of them twenty minutes ago, by the looks of things now. Damn sobriety.

“Takes after me, no?” he asked, a cover for the lurid thoughts that sprung to mind with Petyr’s sass. The boy had a quick tongue when the spirit moved him, and being questioned in such a way certainly seemed to move him. This couldn’t be allowed to stand.

Quentyn chuckled and tilted his head, followed by a small nod. 

“I certainly hope so,” Quentyn agreed. On the warpath, Anthony had been an easy mark, his belly full of wine and chest full of bravado. He’d be happy to have Petyr in a similar position, if not a few positions he’d had Anthony in previously, and it was all too easy for the King to pick up on his train of thought, wishing he could will it away.

Seemingly oblivious to the silent exchange and the implications of the not so silent one, the boy still colored faintly at the attention, casting a nervous glance toward the cupbearer who only shrugged at him. A bit of a drink would help take his jittery nerves down a notch, surely, a thought that only became more urgent when the knight shifted his attention onto him fully. He could feel those blue, blue eyes bearing down on him even without looking just as well as he could feel the tension rolling off of his King in waves.

“Boy, before you go. You may have seen the septa and mummer who aided me on the field. My story is a sad one, and I have no proper squire because of it. Perhaps his grace will feel some generosity towards an old friend and allow me to borrow your services.”

Again, Petyr stiffened, not quite sure what to do with being put on the spot in such a situation. At least his anxious eyeballing of the wine had seemingly gone unnoticed, and he swallowed hard, looking first to Ser Becke and then to his King for direction.

“Go ahead, Pete,” Anthony replied to the unspoken question in the boy’s eyes, though his voice was ever so slightly tight. He didn’t have a good excuse for denying Quentyn his request, even if he could see the ulterior motives as easily as his own armor stood out on the battlefield. “Help our sad little knight here out of his armor so he knows what he’s missing.”

Quentyn laughed along at the King’s jest while Anthony gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, both men gravely aware of the message beneath the teasing words. _You know damn well I don’t like to share my things._

Petyr nodded nervously, though he moved to attend to the knight a fraction slower than he had his King. Keeping his gaze strictly on the armor, he placed a hand upon the worn but superior quality breastplate, inwardly curious and only mostly managing to hide that fact. It was old, he reasoned, inherited, but not some commoner's plate, better made and maintained than something a hedge knight might procure. He set himself to the task of removing it carefully, trying to ignore the way his ears burned and he could feel that piercing, watchful gaze.

If he was slower at helping Ser Becke out of his armor, Petyr would blame being unfamiliar with it. If questioned why his hands trembled faintly, he would deny it. He most certainly was not distracted by the proximity, nor the way the knight looked at him.

Quentyn smiled down at Petyr and the way he was flushed as a maiden. It may have been the end of summer, but there was one bit of fruit his King had clearly yet to pluck.

“It was my grandfather’s. He was the last of the Barrow Kings,” Quentyn explained. “But the North is united now. One man’s pride is a small price for peace... But I digress. I’m sure his grace has taught you your history.” He reached for Petyr’s chin to tilt the boy’s face towards his. Just a bit further and their lips would meet. 

“However, if you find yourself wanting for lessons, I’d oblige it with pleasure,” the knight hummed low, and Anthony knew that he was doing it all on purpose, fully aware of the tension it was causing. The King dramatically rolled his eyes, hiding his bitterness behind his cup as he downed its contents and held it out to be filled once more. Oh, how he wanted to step in, mind racing to formulate a good enough excuse to pull the boy away.

The silence stretched for a long moment as Petyr stood frozen, rooted in place. Pinned by the knight's gaze and the grip on his chin, his hands remained where they'd been, though his feet seemed to have shifted further into Quentyn's personal space. If not for the angle of the sun, perhaps the way the boy's eyes darkened when the knight spoke might have gone unnoticed. The dart of his tongue to wet his lips was far more obvious, as was the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

“I- his grace is very th-thorough with my lessons, Ser,” Petyr offered as a momentary, weak protest, sounding too meek and quiet even to his own ears. “I wouldn't want to impose,” he added, but still made no move, utterly transfixed despite the growing unease he felt from his King. “Although I- I must admit I very much enjoy learning new things, Ser.”

And within the boy's admission was laced the unasked question, perhaps a subtle challenge or just the impulses of a young boy. What could the grandson of a Barrow King teach him that the King in the North could not?

The boy had Anthony and Quentyn’s attention alike now, the King nearly choking on his wine at how suddenly this side of Petyr was being revealed to him. Or had he simply chosen not to notice before?

“You seem a fast learner,” Quentyn replied, similarly struck by how much the boy had developed since he’d run across him in the yard that day. He made an obvious study of Petyr’s body and brushed his thumb against the boy’s lower lip. No doubt he would begin to suck the thing given half the chance, especially now that he was older than when he’d been subdued at the end of the knight’s sword. The subtle hitch of breath and the flutter of lashes hinted as much.

“Yes, Ser...” was barely audible, but it was clear that Petyr was being drawn in like a fly to honey.

Anthony bristled. What Quentyn considered his prize for the tourney was becoming rather apparent, and he was quite ready to cut that avenue off right about now. 

“Trust me, his education has been more than sufficient, what with access to all the libraries in the North and, if I do say so myself — and I do — the best instructor in the North to teach him,” Anthony inserted, placing a firm hand on Quentin’s shoulder, a gesture that, now off the field and still in public, would be treasonous to use force against. 

“Playtime’s over, let Petyr get back to his duties,” the King commanded with easy confidence, the warning clear for Quentyn to back off. It was hard enough now for Anthony not to let his mind wander to the flush on Petyr’s cheeks, the part of his lips, that inexplicably coy demeanor. Gods but it was terribly unfair how tempting the boy had become. The problem now was that for all of Anthony’s own treacherous thoughts, he was becoming more and more certain that Petyr would trust him even in that. The way the boy had looked as Quentyn had drawn his thumb across his lip was deadly.

“Of course, your grace,” Quentyn acquiesced, unhanding the boy with a brief frown. He’d find his way back to Petyr later, at least if the sweet thing didn’t crawl into the lap of his own accord. 

Petyr didn't dare contradict his King's command, carefully squashing down his embarrassment and no small amount of disappointment, and resisted the urge to assert his existence if only for the fact that he was so far beneath the both of them. His lip tingled where the rough pad of Quentin's thumb had grazed, and he couldn't resist running his tongue over the spot.

Eyes darting away, he broke the knight's gaze, returning to tending his armor with only the slightest of fumbles.

Anthony sniffed again, gesturing with his cup. “Why don’t you get back to your mummers, Quentyn. Your armor is taken care of and I’ve got things to do, people to see, you know how it is.”

Quentyn stepped aside from Petyr as ordered, collecting his armor and turning back to his company. “Septa Jeyne, Gutes. Help me return these to William. He’ll see any damage undone,” he declared, giving the boy one final smile. “Many blessings to you both. We will speak again.”

Perhaps Petyr's gaze lingered not entirely discreetly on the knight's retreating form, perhaps not, though Quentyn cut quite the figure. He had so many questions, but the eyes of the public were still upon them and he knew better than to be so forward with the King.

“Will that be all, your grace?” the boy asked instead. “I had hoped to get in a bit of practice while there's still light.”

Also watching Quentyn’s retreat for very different reasons which churned together in the pit of his stomach, Anthony stepped closer and lay a possessive hand on the boy’s lower back, holding forth his wine cup with the other. “Here. Drink with me first,” he insisted, unable to stop himself from indulging just a little after that bold display. It wasn’t the first time he’d allowed himself to look, to take advantage of one thing or another, but he’d never crossed the line, and he still resisted the urge to do so with impunity. 

“Quentyn has a habit of making men thirsty,” Anthony observed, proud that only the faintest touch of wryness made it into his tone.

“Yes, of course, your grace.”

Indeed he did, Petyr inwardly conceded, but then, so did King Anthony, and while he’d known the man was protective, the interaction with Ser Becke had seemed... _More_. Wide eyes looked to his King's face, hands automatically lifting to accept the proffered cup with no small measure of shock and confusion. To drink from the King's own cup seemed almost treasonous, but to reject would be moreso. Petyr was a smart boy, so he tilted the cup to his lips, the scent of the drink filling his nostrils.

He preferred the sweeter mead they served in the hall, in terms of taste, but this was the King's wine, and Anthony often smelled strongly of it. For a moment, Petyr was lost in the thought of this smell assaulting his nose whenever Anthony leaned in close to tell him something over the roar of a rowdy banquet, breath hot against his skin and sending a shiver down his spine. He thought of this taste chasing after his tongue through a different avenue.

Throat bobbing as he swallowed more times than he intended, the boy brought the cup away from his lips again, licking away the remnants of flavor with partly hooded eyes. He could feel the heat of the King's hand through his layers, the subtle but unquestionable pressure making him feel just that much hotter. 

Anthony beamed at Petyr as he complied, doing his best to keep the hunger from his gaze. To watch the boy’s throat work as he swallowed, the deep stain of the wine against his pretty lips, and that _tongue_... It would be the death of him.

“There you go, Pete. Run along now. And avoid Ser Mystique if you can help it, nothing but trouble, that one.”

The boy blinked owlishly at him as he took back his cup and downed its contents, but didn't dare ask why. Even if the itch of suspicion had been building since he'd first approached the two. He hesitated to leave, only taking a few steps before pausing as if he’d remembered something, but the King’s focus seemed to be elsewhere. He was missing part of the puzzle, that much he knew, with only a persistent nagging in his mind attempting to drag him toward the whole picture. 

Petyr stared after his King for a moment, but eventually slipped away once more, ostensibly for practice, though he knew he wouldn't be able to focus with the memory of a thumb against his lip and a possessive hand at the small of his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: How was seeing more of Quentyn? I really like him in this chapter.
> 
> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.


	8. Now, Sweet Thing, Build me a Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Answer the question, Pete,” the King heard himself say, voice rough and low and laced with command. He was already forsaken, why not just kick the boulder weighing him down over the edge of this cliff? The sooner he’d reach the bottom, he reasoned, just one more terrible decision in a line of terrible decisions as he stepped in close, boxed the boy in. From here, he could see how wide Petyr’s pupils were, could note the way he trembled, could observe the way his faint freckles followed the flush of arousal on his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMS: So, SO sorry this took so long to get out, life was crazy, you know? But here, finally, we have these three going at it, and we hope it's worth the wait!
> 
> CN: get fucking ready!! this chapter!!!
> 
> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.

By dusk, Petyr had already made himself presentable again, blending well into the crowd gathering in the hall. He knew the revelry would last through till dawn as it usually did, but he only intended to imbibe minimally, keeping his mind sharp to learn what he could. It wasn't often this many houses gathered in one place after all, and his curiosity was more like a burning need for new knowledge. 

And so the boy found himself drifting in and out of conversations, keeping an eye out for Ser Becke and another on his King. He always felt more comfortable away from the high table, mingling with those of lower station. With these folk, there were no pretenses, only an unspoken camaraderie that he never lost despite being lifted up to the position of squire to the King. He'd never let the status go to his head, but he had utilized the power it gave him to advocate for the common folk, knowing intimately what it was like to share their struggles.

Yet no amount of drink or courtesy seemed able to loosen the lips of most in regards to the history between Anthony and Quentyn. It frustrated him, but he supposed it was to be expected in the King's own hall. It was only when he caught the man slipping away from the high table that he realized he'd lost track of the knight, and that nagging sense blared at him so strongly he nearly swooned.

He had to know.

Excusing himself politely with the auspices of getting some air, Petyr slipped from the hall in the direction he'd seen Anthony go. Heart pounding in his chest at the potential consequences of what he was doing, he pushed past his nerves and followed the pull of his instincts.

As he lost track of the King, something drew him out onto a terrace and into the cool night air, and he swallowed thickly, almost dazedly as he looked up and to his right. There, he could see it, the flickering candlelight in Anthony’s window, mostly obscured by a thick drape but not quite enough that he couldn’t pick it out. Petyr felt almost as if he were entranced as he reached up, fingers finding a grip.

It felt like a strange sort of madness, picking his way carefully up the tower wall, but the boy couldn’t stop, especially not once he heard the muffled sound of voices — _two voices_ — coming from above. Breath caught in his chest, heart hammering, he kept on, inching closer until he was able to peer through the gap where the candlelight was shining.

There, by the fireplace, stood his King, back to the window and gaze fixated on the unmistakable form of Ser Becke where he knelt in order to spark the flame within. The hairs on the back of Petyr’s neck stood on end as he clung near the window, careful to stay in shadow as the fire crackled to life. He knew this was treading dangerous ground, yet he couldn’t stop himself from spying on the two of them.

Anthony’s quarters were straightforward, his desk perhaps the only source of clutter as two heaps of metalworking sketches sat there. In the center of the room stood his bed, possibly the most lavish item in the room and large enough for several people to lie comfortably among the quality furs. Candles flickered in their sconces, some scattered on surfaces but all positioned in such a way to bathe the room in a sensuous mix of low light and shadow. Even the way the wax dripped seemed artful and purposeful, and the boy couldn’t help but admire it.

It felt like a dream as the King turned away from Quentyn, loosening the collar of his doublet with a put upon sigh. He stood with cup in hand, a measure of tension in the set of his shoulders that Petyr could see even in the low, flickering light. The candles cast his face in stark shadows, and despite how much he’d imbibed already throughout the evening, his brow still furrowed visibly as it did when he was thinking on a difficult matter.

“So that’s it, is it? You never visited, you never wrote, it hurt my feelings you know,” Anthony intoned, glancing toward the window but seeing nothing and giving a casual shrug of one shoulder, turning back toward Quentyn. “Gave you your own land and you just up and disappeared to it, some thanks that was,” he huffed, but Petyr thought it sounded almost... amused? Fond? It was a far cry from their interactions on the field earlier, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“Is it so hard to say thank you? Here, I’ll even say it with you,” the King gestured with his free hand and his wine glass both, nearly sloshing the liquid over the sides. “ _Thank you_.”

“I’ll do you one better. Would you believe I’ve missed you, your grace?” the knight asked, turning from the fire. Anthony didn’t seem so sure. “I had a land to rule over, and doing well by the people was the best way to honor your gift. I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

Quentyn followed the King’s every movement with his eyes, and even from his precarious perch Petyr could see the way the candlelight glinted in them. The expression on Ser Becke’s face didn’t quite match up with the words, leaving the boy with a niggling sense of dread he couldn’t quite shake. Perhaps it was the fact that he was so many feet in the air, gripping onto the side of the keep tower with a deadly drop below.

Perhaps it was the fact that if they caught him, he’d surely be punished severely. Spying on the King was treason, in fact, but this seemed somehow even more treacherous even though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it just yet.

“You know my poor heart can’t take it, I really could’ve died. _Died_ , Quentyn,” Anthony lamented, taking a swig of his wine and placing his free hand on his chest dramatically. “And you come riding back, knock me off my horse, game, set and match, and _then_ ,” his voice took on a slightly sharper tone and he downed his cup, already pouring another. “And then you play your games with my squire right in front of me with that stupid, charming smile of yours and those eyes and _he’s just a boy_ , you are a _devil_ , Quentyn Becke, that’s what you are.”

“I remember him saying he was old enough, but you are the King after all so your word is law,” Quentyn returned, tilting his head slightly in response to Anthony pouring another cup of wine. Petyr had to hold his breath to keep from gasping at how familiar they were with each other, how easily such a phrase could be considered backtalk. It didn’t help that they were talking about him, about how he’d reacted earlier, his face feeling hot despite the chill of the evening.

It was true enough, he was a young man, and had known peers of his that were younger than himself who already knew someone else’s touch, so why couldn’t he? He supposed the obvious reason was that he was so terribly awkward with his feelings, and it helped not at all that those boyish attentions were turned toward one person he could never have. The King must have said something, but he’d missed it in his stupor, because now the man was right up in Ser Becke’s space, and though the boy couldn’t see Anthony’s expression, he could see that the knight was far from taking it seriously.

“Ah- _no_. I don’t want to hear it, don’t you _dare_ say what I know you’re thinking. _Do. Not._ Or I swear I’ll strip you of your titles right now,” Anthony warned, but Petyr could hear the slight quaver in his voice, the tell that gave him away. He wouldn’t do it. Both the boy and the knight knew it. 

Quentyn’s hand snaked down the King’s chest and remained at the lower end of his stomach with a boldness that suggested this was a game the two men had played many times. The boy felt his stomach clench, gripping harder at the stones as he felt his palms start to sweat. This was it, this was the missing piece to his puzzle, it was all falling into place.

“You wouldn’t do that to your sweet Barrowling would you?” he sighed, now taking his turn to mimic hurt. The knight leaned his lips towards Anthony’s neck as he continued to talk. “Why not meet in the middle and buy a boy together? We could dress him as-”

“And you’re doing it anyway of course you are, how about you just-” A pause. The way Anthony turned, hands fisted in Quentyn’s shirt gave Petyr a clear view of them both, his breath catching in his throat when the King leaned in closer, face angled toward the knight’s. “ _Shut up,_ ” barely audible before their lips were pressed together and Quentyn’s hands were on Anthony’s breeches.

Petyr heard the strangest little sound, something between a squeak and a choking gasp, only a bit distant as his pulse pounded in his ears. Funny, that sound, until the dawning realization came that it was he who made it. Mortified, he froze, though every hair on his body seemed to be standing on end now, adrenaline coursing through his veins and his eyes wide as saucers. Whether it was from fear or excitement, he couldn’t tell, but no matter how loudly his mind screamed at him to run, he couldn’t.

Anthony’s blood ran cold, panic seizing him as his head whipped toward the window, hands white-knuckled in Quentyn’s shirt. Seeming far calmer than the King, the knight disentangled himself from the tense grip and stepped over to the window while Anthony tried and failed to dissemble.

Blue eyes shone down at Petyr as Quentyn nudged the curtain aside, giving the boy the most relaxed smile he could muster, given the circumstances. For his part, the poor boy looked somewhere between scared out of his skin and terribly aroused.

“Speak of the raven and you’ll find him at your keep” the knight swore with a laugh.

He extended a hand in the boy’s direction as Anthony finally found his feet, stepping just far enough that he could see who Quentyn was reaching for. Petyr’s name fell from the King’s lips with a measure of incredulity, and though the boy had a distinctly _off_ feeling about taking the knight’s hand, it was the look on Anthony’s face that convinced him.

For a moment, the two just looked at each other, uncertainty into something Petyr couldn’t place in Ser Becke’s eyes. For a moment, he felt weightless, at the knight’s mercy as he let go of the wall, a sickening feeling churning in his stomach. The boy almost thought that he would be dropped, but instead, the knight pulled him up securely, stumbling back slightly with the weight.

Petyr caught himself easily despite the sudden shift, landing deftly just inside the window, his wide eyes locking with Anthony’s as he finally found his voice. “Y-your grace, Ser, I- Please I swear I won’t say anything I’m so sorry please don’t have me executed my aunt, your grace, you know she can’t- I can’t- I’ll do anything, please-” he spouted, impressively all in one breath, until a raised hand from the King silenced him.

“Pete, calm down, nobody’s executing anybody so just breathe, okay? Can you do that for me?” Anthony prompted, trying to keep his voice calm and steady even while the wine clouded his judgment and made the temptation of _anything_ almost unbearable. 

Quentyn slowly wet his lips while eyeing Petyr thoughtfully, a look that Anthony caught out of the corner of his eye with a twisting sense of both dread and sick excitement. If anyone should be executed right now it would be his traitorous cock twitching in interest at the idea of just letting this play out.

“You do _love_ your King, don’t you?” the knight prompted, drawing out the word love to make it rich with insinuation.

“ _Becke_!” Anthony hissed, but neither of them missed the way Petyr’s eyelids lowered faintly, nor the boy’s pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. Even in the firelight, they could see the way his nostrils flared just so as he took in a shaky breath, gaze flicking from one man to the other.

“S-Ser Becke I- I um... w-what?”

Gods be damned, the boy’s voice _cracked_ and Anthony thought he felt a piece of his resolve crack with it.

“I promised you a lesson. I could teach you to please him,” Quentyn offered bluntly, making the boy nearly choke and his King do a full-body twitch in shock. The knight stalked closer to the clearly conflicted boy, voice dropping to a whisper, just loud enough that Anthony could still hear. “Our dear King fears ruining his favorite prize.”

Quentyn circled around the boy, eyeing him up and down as he stopped behind him, close enough that Petyr could feel the heat of his body against his back. Anthony could only watch in stunned silence, strangely at a loss for words as the knight raised an eyebrow at him, hands resting heavy upon the boy’s shoulders.

“He’s even prettier up close, your Grace,” Quentyn continued, lips drawing closer to Petyr’s ear and making the boy visibly shiver with the ghosting of his breath. Still, he spoke only just loud enough, and Anthony swallowed thickly at the way Petyr’s face flushed, the subtle part of his lips.

“You’ve been saving yourself for the King, haven’t, you?” the knight prompted then, causing the boy to suck in a gasp, denial on the tip of his tongue as he tried in vain to stammer it out. Anthony wanted to step forward, and so he did, though his reasoning was conflicted, torn between his morals and his darkest vice.

 _That’s enough_ , he wanted to say, and yet instead, his mouth made the decision before his mind could fully catch up.

“Answer the question, Pete,” the King heard himself say, voice rough and low and laced with command. He was already forsaken, why not just kick the boulder weighing him down over the edge of this cliff? The sooner he’d reach the bottom, he reasoned, just one more terrible decision in a line of terrible decisions as he stepped in close, boxed the boy in. From here, he could see how wide Petyr’s pupils were, could note the way he trembled, could observe the way his faint freckles followed the flush of arousal on his cheeks.

Anthony could feel the boy’s quickened, unsteady breath could smell the mead he’d drank in the hall. There was no denying anymore the way Petyr’s head tilted back, angled up to look his King in the eye, and Gods but how had he moved even closer?

“ _Yes_ -” was barely out of Petyr’s mouth before Anthony was silencing any further words with his own, taking advantage of the gasp he elicited to slip his tongue between the boy’s parted lips to chase the taste of him. The way Petyr moaned would be a sound forever etched into the King’s mind, reverberating straight through him in a searing line straight to his groin. He was terrible, just as bad as Becke, but the boy’s delicate hands were gripping his doublet like a lifeline, neck craned for more even though he was clearly inexperienced, and Anthony _couldn’t stop_.

He’d never been called a man that controlled his impulses well, after all, and Petyr — _Gods, Petyr —_ was hard against the thigh he’d shoved between the boy’s legs without thinking. Anthony groaned, an almost broken sound as he felt the first roll of Petyr’s hips. _Shit, what am I doing_? It took every ounce of willpower he had left just to pull back from the boy’s mouth, excuses bubbling up to the surface and dying before they could escape. When he did manage words, he sounded wrecked and desperate, torn.

“Tell me to stop, Pete, you know you can tell me to stop, right? _Tell me to stop_.”

But the boy’s hips didn’t stop, and Anthony realized as he stared down at the utter mess Petyr was that he’d had his hands in soft curls this entire time, fingers flexing their grip and only drawing out another whimpering moan.

“Please- please your grace I- please don’t stop!” Petyr begged, breathlessly, and that was it, the last threads of Anthony’s self-control slipped through his fingers like so much sand. As he dove back in to devour more of those delicious sounds, the King was reminded of Quentyn’s presence, the knight now pressed firmly against Petyr’s backside as he pulled up the fabric of the boy’s tunic to expose a pale swath of his stomach.

The temptation proved too great, and Anthony dropped his hands from the boy’s hair in order to push them up that lean torso he’d seen so many times from just far enough away to keep himself in check. Now, there was no distance, and he could watch the way Petyr’s head lolled back against Quentyn’s shoulder once the garment was out of the way and tossed carelessly to the side. 

He could watch the way dark eyes rolled back and kiss bruised lips parted when his thumb brushed over one pert nipple and Quentyn sucked a trail of deep, red marks down the side of the boy’s neck. He could _feel_ the ripple of trim, toned muscle with every increasingly frantic roll of Petyr’s hips while he ground helplessly against his King’s thigh, chasing his release held firmly in Quentyn’s arms.

“ _Fuck_ , Pete...”

Anthony wasn’t sure it was possible to be harder than he was right then. 

And Petyr?

The boy was living beyond his wildest fantasies and sordid dreams that left him hard and aching until he was able to take care of his problem. Here, now, drowning in the heat of the two of them, he writhed, panting, overwhelmed in the best of ways. The scratch of their beards against his skin was better than Petyr could have imagined, half of his sounds swallowed by Anthony’s hungry, possessive mouth while the unmistakable hardness of Quentyn’s cock grinding against his ass was making him feel things he couldn’t have dreamed possible.

Already Petyr was getting close, whining high in his throat as Anthony’s hands found their way down to his hips, tugging impatiently at the fabric of his breeches with a growl that nearly tipped the boy over right then and there. But Quentyn’s lips were back at his ear, and he shivered out a curse, back arching as much as it could and earning a low groan from Anthony for the way his hip pressed just so. “Please-” he had no idea what he was begging for, other than _more_ , his rhythm shaky at best and getting worse as the knight’s hands slid up his sides and to his chest, toying with the hardened buds of his nipples.

“The wine might give him a bit of trouble, but I bet he’s good and hard for you, isn’t he? I bet our King is aching to put his royal cock between your lips,” Quentyn urged, the roughness in his voice proving that he was certainly not unaffected by all this. Even if the idea hadn’t been present in either of their minds, it certainly was there now, Anthony grinding unintentionally hard against Petyr’s hip.

“Please can I, your grace, please-” the boy breathed, eager to please his King, eager to please them both, but Anthony’s thumb pushed past his lips to effectively silence him, and it would have to do just then.

“Don’t worry, sweetness, you’ll be on your knees soon enough, but you’re gonna come undone for me first, aren’t you now?” Anthony prompted, fingers tugging expertly at the laces of the boy’s pants. And Petyr could do nothing but comply because the King’s hand gripped his cock through the fabric and he was _gone_. The boy cried out as he went rigid, cock pulsing hard in Anthony’s grip as he spilled his seed all but on command, nearly dragging the King right over with him as though he were still a boy himself.

Anthony would be ashamed of such a thing if he weren’t so enraptured by the look of absolute pleasure on Petyr’s face, by how the boy looked as though he’d already been thoroughly fucked just from rutting to completion on his thigh with his pants still on. _In-fucking-credible_. 

Quentyn let the boy slump into Anthony’s arms, placing a tender kiss on the back of his head as he slowed the movement of his own hips with a sigh. “Look how happy you’ve made him, your grace,” he murmured, catching the King’s eye over the boy’s shoulder. “And the sweet thing hasn’t even had your prick yet.”

“Your grace...” Petyr breathed, legs shaky beneath him, and face flushed from the embarrassment of what he’d just done. And yet Anthony was looking at him with a hunger in his dark eyes the likes of which the boy had never seen. It only made his face grow hotter and his legs feel weaker, especially when the knight stepped back and all that really seemed to hold him up was the grip the King had on his arms.

“You’re alright, Pete, look at you, you’re incredible,” Anthony intoned, helping to guide the boy gently down to his knees. When Petyr looked up at him, he had to squeeze his eyes shut and tip his head to the ceiling for how hard the image had his cock throbbing. Delicate, trembling hands tugging at the laces of his breeches brought his gaze back down and he swore, fingers smoothing over the boy’s hair, itching to do more. “Go on, serve your King, you perfect little keep climber, Gods you’re gorgeous...”

The King gestured for Quentyn to bring his wine, but Petyr couldn’t look away from what was finally right in front of his face. He was almost too eager, fumbling with the laces until finally, he freed Anthony’s cock, eyes wide in awe of the sight. The tightening of the grip in his hair brought the boy out of his momentary stupor, however, and the subtle tug only encouraged him to lean forward, tongue darting out to sweep over the tip, the taste at first making him scrunch his face a bit until he decided that he liked it, as well as the hissed out curse that fell from Anthony’s lips when he did it again, more boldly.

And just like all of his other studies, Petyr did take to this quickly and with a single-minded focus, spurred on by the twitching grip in his hair and the way the King groaned out his name. 

Quentyn brought Anthony his wine as requested, turning the man’s head to face him with a gentle grip on his chin. As the King obeyed, gaze hooded and more than a little glassy, the knight held the chalice to his lips with a smile. Wordlessly, he tipped it, and Anthony took his drink, humming with a tilt of his head to indicate Quentyn should move it back.

“Look at him,” he murmured, one hand still lightly gripping at Petyr’s hair as the boy worked diligently to swallow his cock. At the mention, Petyr looked up, catching sight of the way Anthony reached for Quentyn, pulling him into a wine flavored kiss and letting his hand trail down to tug the man’s shirt from his breeches.

And if Petyr wasn’t fully hard again before, he certainly was now, moaning around Anthony’s cock in time with the way the King moaned against Quentyn’s mouth. Either of them on their own was incredible, but the two of them together was beyond any of the boy’s fantasies. He reached down to his own trousers, pushing the uncomfortably sticky fabric down to expose his dick, already aching again as he watched the two men break apart so they could both finish removing their shirts. 

The boy’s pace faltered and slowed as their bodies were exposed, both far thicker than his own lithe form, though the knight’s muscles were more defined. The trails of dark hair were another difference from Petyr’s hairless chest and stomach, even the hairs on his arms and legs incredibly fine and light, and he groaned at the sight, dragging an echo from Anthony as well.

“I’m going to take that pert bottom when he’s done sucking your cock,” Quentyn announced decidedly, placing a kiss across Anthony’s bare shoulder and making the King shiver. “We’ll deflower him in your bed together.”

“No, no you’re not,” Anthony countered, fingers tightening in Petyr’s hair and earning a gasp that allowed his cock to fall from between the boy’s lips, smacking lightly against his cheek with the motion. “You’re not going to take a damn thing from him before I do,” he clarified, watching with hungry eyes the way the boy shivered and sucked in a breath at the proclamation. “Up on the bed, Pete, clothes off,” the King ordered, voice rough and throat dry as every pale inch of skin was revealed and laid out like a feast against the dark furs on his bed.

Gods he was wearing too much right now.

Tilting his head, Quentyn stood behind Anthony while he watched the show, tugging the King’s breeches down past his hips. Gaze drifting over the both of them, he curled his fingers around Anthony’s hard cock, squeezing slowly and earning a hand in his hair, tugging him toward the King’s shoulder.

“I suppose I’ll find a way to stay occupied,” the knight intoned, and Petyr all but writhed on the soft furs as he watched the King’s hips roll against Quentyn’s grip, those dark eyes fixated on him. The boy let out a whimper, his own hips rocking against nothing, neglected, the hunger in both sets of eyes on him enough to set his skin on fire.

“Take his mouth, if you’re so bored, it’ll keep you occupied pretty damn well,” Anthony pointed out, pulling away to finish getting rid of his clothes, crawling up onto the bed with a singular purpose.

“Would you like that, Petyr? One of us on each end?” Quentyn asked, an all but rhetorical question as the boy licked his lips, nodding even before the words were all the way out. As if it were necessary, he also let out a breathy _yes_ as Anthony ran calloused hands up his smooth thighs. Gods but Petyr was perfect damnation, and the King looked up when Quentyn moved to the head of the bed and into position, eyes traveling from one to the other. He was a terrible man for this, and yet how could he deny himself when Petyr looked so desperate, as though he’d waited just as long for this?

Eagerly, Petyr rolled onto his stomach, looking back over his shoulder at Anthony for approval before situating himself between Quentyn’s thighs. He could only imagine the picture he must have made based on the King’s not so quiet appreciation. Now, his senses were filled with the heady smell of their musk, and though he made a small noise of surprise when Anthony tugged his hips up, the moan that followed only seemed to spur both men on. Gods but it was a dizzying feeling to be so desired, to actually live a fantasy he’d played out for so long now.

“Let’s see what you’ve learned, sweetling,” the knight murmured, voice dark with want and sending a shiver down Petyr’s spine. It sparked those same warning bells, that tone, and yet again, the boy nodded unnecessarily, peering up as Quentyn guided the tip of his stiff cock to rub against his parted lips. Petyr could feel the way Anthony spread his cheeks open, could hear the low, almost pained groan the King let out at the sight of him, the boy’s face flushed a brilliant shade as he flicked his tongue out to taste.

“Go on, Pete, make him forget his name,” Anthony urged, just a little teasing, before giving in to the way his mouth watered for the feast set out before him. To the boy’s credit, he swallowed a good amount of Quentyn’s cock in one go with a surprised moan when the King’s tongue swept over his hole. It helped that the knight gripped his head with both hands, urging him to swallow more and more until he gagged. Unlike Anthony, Quentyn was rougher, more forceful, and yet despite the tears gathering in his eyes, Petyr clearly liked being treated this way even when choking.

“I’ve been wanting after your pretty mouth all day,” Quentyn grunted, face and groin alike flushed with pleasure as he withdrew his cock partway only to drive it back into Petyr’s throat again. Ever the quick learner, the boy only choked a handful of times before he began to get the hang of it, jaw lax for the knight’s pleasure as he went mindless from the attention Anthony was laving on his hole.

As long as he’d waited for this, Anthony had wanted to move slowly, taking his time to take Petyr apart in every considerable way he knew how. And yet with the way the boy squirmed, pushing back against the intrusion of his tongue, the King was helplessly ravenous. Still, the last thing he wanted was to hurt the boy, and he did so want to enjoy his feast as well, savoring the taste on his tongue as Petyr squirmed against the grip he had on narrow hips.

“Oil,” the King rasped as he paused for breath, requiring that at least one of Quentyn’s hands would have to be removed from the boy’s curls, though the grip the knight still had with the other allowed him to drive repeatedly into Petyr’s willing throat. It was quite the sight, as even from behind Anthony could see the flush on the boy’s face, the way he took to sucking cock like he was born for it. Dark eyes lifted to watch the way the knight looked lost in his own pleasure, lips parted and breaths panting, eyes screwed shut to focus on the heat of Petyr’s mouth.

Anthony urged him again, and this time Quentyn did pull out, leaving the boy coughing and gasping, tears streaming down his face. And yet Petyr still clung to the knight’s hips, mewled at being denied both their releases even if he knew that there was more to come. He took his blessing, though, trembling as he rested his face against Quentyn’s strong thigh, hips rocking ever so slightly of their own accord. All it took was the King pushing his tongue back inside while slipping his hand between Petyr’s thighs to drag his calloused palm over his balls and up to his leaking prick and the boy was coming again, sobbing and shaking as his nails dug into Quentyn’s hips and his glassy eyes stared up at the knight unseeing.

As he came down, the King took the opportunity to slick his fingers with the oil in order to press two of them inside, crooning softly as he looked over the swell of the boy’s ass to lock eyes with Quentyn. Petyr was babbling nonsense against the knight’s thigh, and despite himself, Anthony couldn’t take enough time to prepare him, couldn’t wait that long to be inside of him. He’d waited long enough. Gods help him, he had, and his meager stretching would have to suffice, though Petyr seemed to like a little bit of pain as it were.

Quentyn smiled lopsidedly back at Anthony and wet his lips, a motion that the King mirrored as he straightened up onto his knees, only probing with his fingers until the point where he could no longer stand it. The knight’s spit slicked cock slid against Petyr’s cheek as the boy gazed dazedly up at him, head leaning into Quentyn’s softer, more affectionate touch with his prettily bruised lips parted to take shaky breaths. Even still, the knight kept his gaze level with the King’s over the top of the boy between them, his smile turning ever so slightly more catlike.

“Would you like to see what your King and I do together?” Quentyn asked after a moment, and Anthony visibly shuddered, slowly withdrawing his fingers and smearing the oil over his own prick. The poor boy actually _whined_ at the loss, and again the King made a soothing sound, rubbing Petyr’s flank with his dry hand while wide, doe eyes gazed up at the knight in a mix of curiosity and lust.

“Ser...?” the boy questioned, the roughness in his voice from having taken Quentyn’s cock down his throat making Anthony’s own length throb in his hand. Such a sweet thing, Petyr even tried to look back over his shoulder, and _Gods_ , how wrecked he looked was not at all fair to the King’s considerable lack of restraint at this point.

“Is that really how you’re going to play this, Becke?” Anthony countered, though it lacked bite and truly he knew that Quentyn’s mind was made up. Inwardly, he couldn’t exactly complain, but he wondered at how long he might last if not for the wine, a good thing he’d had so much tonight, he thought ruefully.

“Ser- Your grace, I want to, please-”

And how could the King deny such a sweet plea? He sighed, hand smoothing up Petyr’s lower back and around to his side, urging him to turn over. The boy went eagerly, without complaint, and only then could Anthony truly take in the full sight of him. Cock flushed and resting against his hip, seed smeared along his belly, hair tousled and lips red and shiny and swollen, Petyr was a vision, and yet it got even better when the boy reached down to grip behind his knees in order to expose himself. _Fuck_. Anthony’s mouth went dry at the sight, hand stilling on his cock and just squeezing at the base to keep himself in check.

“Gods, Pete, you can’t just _do_ that...” the King breathed, eyes flicking up once more to Petyr’s face, the boy blushing all the way down to his chest and steadfastly averting his gaze, lip worried between his teeth. “Where’d you even learn something like that,” he continued, breathless as he slotted himself between Petyr’s legs, cockhead rubbing against his slick hole. Anthony braced himself, covering the boy’s body with his own, lips pressed tenderly to his jaw where his head was turned away.

“I- I saw one of the stable boys with a wh- _whore_!” Petyr tried to respond, but the end of his sentence was cut off abruptly by the sudden breach of the King’s cock, turning his words into a cry that mixed with Anthony’s strangled groan. Impossibly deep, impossibly full, it was unlike anything Petyr had ever felt, and oh, it _hurt_ , but he was in awe of the almost pained look on the King’s face so close to his, gave up his grip behind his knees in order to cling to him instead, shaking from the shock of it.

Quentyn drew back from the two of them and circled around on the bed, placing a tender kiss on the King's neck as he sank into the boy. It was all Anthony could do just to hold himself still, letting them both adjust, pulling himself back from the edge for how _tight_ Petyr clenched around him. 

“Take him deep, Petyr,” Quentyn urged, biting his lip as he studied the boy’s face, brown eyes glazed with mixture of pain and arousal, discomfort and pleasure both etched on his delicate features. To his credit, Petyr nodded distantly, a whimper rising in his throat before he squeezed his eyes shut and tossed his head back, nails digging into the King's shoulders.

“I’ll get you good and slick first, your Grace. I want you in utter bliss tonight,” the knight teased, reaching for the oil Anthony had just used on Petyr while the King murmured soothing nothings to the boy, coaxing him to relax. 

It was good that Petyr was quick enough to comply once Anthony began to gently stroke his sweat-damp curls because the sensation of Quentyn's slick finger rubbing along his rim made the King suck in a breath and twitch his hips. He could only stay still for so long, only had so much control, but the boy's heels dug into the small of his back, lithe hips starting to rock in search of relief, and that was it.

"Gonna move now, Pete, gonna make you feel so good, I promise," Anthony murmured, pressing his lips to the boy's jaw as the first agonizingly slow roll of his hips wrung moans out of them both. "Wanted this for so long you have no idea, Gods, Becke hurry it up will you?" he griped breathlessly, groaning as the knight began preparing him in earnest. He couldn't help but rock back against probing fingers, forward into tight heat, purposefully slow just to draw this out the way he knew to so well. It was a blissful torture, watching the way discomfort melted into awed pleasure on Petyr's flushed face, hearing the boy's little gasps and moans of _your grace_ as he started to move with him. Surely Quentyn could forgive him for being so entranced.

“Oh? I thought I ought to treat you more tenderly,” Quentyn japed, aligning his prick with the King’s entrance and slowly pressing forward. As Petyr’s pleasured noises combined with Anthony’s, the knight sank deeper, letting out a low moan as he bottomed out, weight settling enough to still all their movements for a moment.

“And yet you know better,” Anthony countered, voice nearly broken as he supported Quentyn’s weight just enough that the two of them together weren’t crushing the boy beneath them. He only wanted Petyr unable to breathe from pleasure, not from having the air smothered out of him, after all, and he breathed out a huff against the boy’s jaw again, pushing up enough to rock his hips between the two of them, Petyr’s hands falling to his arms. “Okay, Pete?” the King questioned, earning a dazed nod and a breathy _please_. So be it.

"Becke, _move_ ," he ground out, trusting Quentyn to find the right rhythm as he set his own pace, letting himself get lost between the heat of their bodies and being filled and surrounded at once. The harder he snapped his hips, the louder Petyr cried out, yet still the boy kept begging and pleading for _more, more your grace, please, Gods_.

Quentyn laughed at the show of indignance, but matched the King’s pace regardless, forcing him harder into the lithe body beneath them both. For Petyr, it felt like an eternity and not long enough, drowning in the pleasure, captivated by the scene above him that only fueled his arousal. Glassy eyes flicked between the earth and the sky, both of them focused mostly on him, and it was too much. When the knight hissed something in Anthony’s ear, following it with the scrape of his teeth, the King made such a sound that Petyr couldn’t help but echo it.

When Anthony reached back and gripped Quentyn’s hair, urging the knight’s mouth to his shoulder, Petyr gasped, and the next thrust struck true to the spot that had been making him see stars this whole time. He let out a keening moan, practically digging bruises into the King’s arm as his hips jerked and his body went rigid with his peak as they watched him shoot his seed across his stomach and up to his chest.

Anthony choked on a curse at the sudden tightness, the sight of the boy beneath him completely coming undone, and that, combined with Quentyn’s teeth sinking into the flesh of his shoulder and the experienced thrusts of his cock, sent him over the edge himself, spilling hot and deep inside of Petyr with a strangled groan of the boy’s name. Fingers tightening in the knight’s hair, he knew even as he rode out his pleasure that Quentyn was about to chase his own now.

“My turn, _your grace_ ,” the knight growled low into Anthony’s ear, and the King nodded absently, though he was terribly reluctant to leave the heat of Petyr’s body. But he couldn’t deny the knight his pleasure, too, for his part in all of this, no matter how loathe he felt to share now, and so he shuddered at the feeling of Quentyn pulling out and pulled out himself, rolling to Petyr’s side to catch his breath. The King tried not to be jealous as the knight took his place between the boy’s thighs, though he couldn’t be sure of the exact nature of that jealousy, swallowing the sound Petyr made at the stretch of Quentyn’s cock with a kiss.

Incredibly, the boy was clearly still aroused, despite reaching his peak so many times already, but when Quentyn moved he still writhed and whimpered at being the center of both their attentions again. Truly, the sounds he made were nearly enough to bring Anthony’s cock back to life as the knight took his pleasure quick and rough, an actual _scream_ tearing itself from the boy’s throat at a particularly well-aimed thrust. Petyr seemed gone with it all, but even more so when Anthony took hold of his leaking cock and stroked him along with Quentyn’s thrusts, ripping one last climax out of the boy and dragging the knight over the edge with him.

At least Quentyn had the grace to roll off to the side when he was finished after stealing a filthy kiss, leaving Petyr a panting and trembling mess, leaking and covered in his own seed. Anthony had half a mind to send the knight for a rag to clean them, but then, he knew better, and with the way Petyr curled right up into his arms made it rather difficult. Just a minute then, he reasoned, as he pressed a kiss to the boy’s sweaty curls and Quentyn’s arm slung all the way over his middle to wrap round them both, the knight’s lips pressed to the nape of his neck.

As Petyr’s breathing evened out, Anthony decided that the mess could wait for the morning.


	9. This Dance I Dance for You, Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re scared,” Petyr noted, voice soft and almost too quiet to hear, but he was close to Anthony now, close enough that the words carried in the empty chamber. If the way the King twitched and stiffened, eyes squinting briefly were any indication, Petyr was right. “Why?” he blurted, before he could stop himself from questioning the one man he never should, and yet whatever it was between them at least afforded him a measure of latitude in their interactions.
> 
> The breath Anthony took was heavy and shuddering, but his hands cupped Petyr’s face, drawing the boy in close as his thumbs stroked across his cheekbones.
> 
> “You’ll change,” the King murmured, searching the boy’s eyes as he spoke, quiet and with a weight to his words. “I wish I could keep you just like you are, keep you safe here with me, but I can’t, Pete, and I can’t lose you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMS - Once again, so sorry for the delay, this work is NOT ABANDONED! We are in fact close to being able to put a final chapter count on it! We WILL see this through to the end!
> 
> CN - HERE WE ARE. BUCKLE UP!!!

Petyr swayed and dipped, spun and tumbled, the world around him a dizzying blur of color as the sweat gathered on his brow and dripped from his hairline, curls plastered to his forehead. He could feel Anthony’s eyes on him, the heat of that gaze simmering just beneath his skin, and he pushed himself, always further, always better for his King’s approval. As he closed his eyes and let the dance flow through him, he could feel those large, calloused hands upon him, could hear the whispered words in his ear that heatedly told him how _well_ he was doing, how _perfect_ he was.

Effortlessly, the boy twisted and turned from one routine into the next, skin glistening in the flickering firelight. The main hall was empty but for them, the last stragglers of the host of lords and ladies having departed over a fortnight past to ready their lands for the coming winter, but even if they’d still been there, Petyr only danced for his King, and he held Anthony’s undivided attention. Flashes of steel and crimson danced with him, a presence he could never shake behind his eyelids, and when he came to an abrupt halt, eyes snapping open to stare the King in the face, the boy felt equal parts lovesick and dreadful unease.

Anthony approached the boy, then, dark eyes darker for the want in them as Petyr’s chest heaved from exertion, bare for the King’s fingers to carefully draw over. The boy’s breath caught, but he held his pose, anxiously waiting for a command, approval, _anything_. He hadn’t been touched since that night too many moons ago, and his body ached for it, the ghosting sensation of hands in his dreams nowhere near enough now that he’d been given the real thing in the waking world. The King seemed to hesitate even now, keen on torturing himself even though he’d given in, and Petyr intended to break that stubborn resolve now that he knew what lay beneath it.

“I’m ready for the next lesson, your grace,” he breathed, muscles trembling only slightly as Anthony took a step back and gestured for him to relax. The boy did so, but not without a sigh, rubbing at the gooseflesh that had risen on his arms in the wake of the King’s touch. “Please, I know it all by heart, I’m ready for _more_ ,” the boy insisted, watched the way Anthony retreated into his cup. There was fire in his eyes as he stepped forward, bold.

“You’re ready when I say you’re ready,” the King countered, that thick quality to his voice that Petyr now knew came from trying to curb his desires. How many times had he heard Anthony’s voice sound like that? The King had said _for so long_ , but how long was that? The boy supposed that it didn’t matter, yet curiosity never left him. Still, those dark eyes softened as he approached with all the hidden grace so few knew about, just one of many skills the man before him had him trained in.

He _was_ ready. Anthony had to see it, had to see the way he’d taken to every lesson, even integrated them in ways the masters hadn’t taught him to, how he longed to prove himself capable in the field. The King’s mouth was set in a firm line, jaw tense and fingers twitching as the boy closed the distance between them, and he had to know, didn’t he? He had to know by now that Petyr had begun to be capable of reading between the lines that comprised King Anthony Eddard Stark.

Or maybe he didn’t know. Maybe Petyr was better at masking his talents than even he himself thought, and that lesson of never showing his hand had become second nature. Perhaps Anthony had no idea that his pupil had come so far, but as he stared into the King’s eyes, the boy realized it was likely something else entirely. The lifeless eyes of the late King and Queen Stark may not have haunted his dreams in a long time, but they were not something he could ever forget.

“You’re scared,” Petyr noted, voice soft and almost too quiet to hear, but he was close to Anthony now, close enough that the words carried in the empty chamber. If the way the King twitched and stiffened, eyes squinting briefly were any indication, Petyr was right. “Why?” he blurted, before he could stop himself from questioning the one man he never should, and yet whatever it was between them at least afforded him a measure of latitude in their interactions.

The breath Anthony took was heavy and shuddering, but his hands cupped Petyr’s face, drawing the boy in close as his thumbs stroked across his cheekbones.

“You’ll change,” the King murmured, searching the boy’s eyes as he spoke, quiet and with a weight to his words. “I wish I could keep you just like you are, keep you safe here with me, but I can’t, Pete, and I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” Petyr responded immediately, and even as he melted beneath the intensity of the kiss that followed, he knew in his heart with a sickening clarity that it was true. Anthony would never lose him.

* * *

In the days that followed, it was as though the dam had broken, and all of Anthony’s pent up desire flowed from him like a river that caught Petyr up in its current. He had known that he was damned the moment the boy had set foot in his chamber that night, but he had tried so, so very hard to rein it back in, only to have his protégé come in and cut the reins entirely. So instead, Anthony did everything in his considerable power to give the boy everything he deserved, even if he himself didn’t deserve a soul like Petyr Parker.

With Quentyn, these things were all heat and teeth, wit and subversion, like a war game played in the bedchamber. The knight never stayed long and they never truly spoke of what was between them, but Anthony knew despite his unhealthy attachment to his friend, that was all they were at best. He had no delusions that there was any love shared there, though some nights Quentyn almost made him believe it.

With Petyr, everything was different. Anthony did his best to take his time with the boy, to show him everything and give him everything he knew how to give. When Petyr looked at him, there was devotion in his eyes, damn near to worship, but so too was there something else he couldn’t quite place. Fear, perhaps, or longing, a faraway look the boy would get in his eyes sometimes that made him look too old for his skin. So Anthony kissed that look away until there was nothing but light shining in those eyes, and dare he think it, _love_. 

Although Anthony knew better than to accept it, he couldn’t help but feed it, feed _on_ it, greedy and selfish as he was to take everything he could get even when he shouldn’t. But Petyr gave and gave, always coming back for more, as if he’d been waiting just as long for this.

As if every second were precious.

Knowing what he knew, Anthony almost thought it apt.

Knowing what he knew, Petyr thought it moreso.

* * *

“Your grace-” Petyr gasped, a beautiful sight as he was, lain out across the throne seat in the great hall, twice spent and chest heaving. Thank the gods for the gaudy size of the thing, Anthony thought as he wiped the boy’s spend from his stomach and brought it to his lips, eyes dark and locked with Petyr’s. It was dangerous to do this here, yet oh so thrilling, and after the dance that had been performed for him tonight the King had no illusions of making it up to his chambers before tasting the boy.

“Easy, sweet thing, I’ve got you,” Anthony purred, dipping down to meld their lips together and share the taste. He smiled, pure and genuine as Petyr nodded, lips curving up as well, lithe fingers running through his King’s mussed hair. The two of them must have made such a picture, yet the King had made certain that there would be no visitors, no intruders, and no unexpected guests in the hall tonight. Not that he had been _planning_ this, but how could he not ravish the boy after such an exquisite performance?

“Please, your grace, please,” was so imploring, so needy that Anthony couldn’t deny him, nudging the boy aside to take his own seat in the throne, cock thick and heavy where it protruded from his breeches, a bead of fluid gathered at the tip. The way Petyr looked at it was a marvel, truly, but nothing compared to how the boy looked back at him, or how he looked as he climbed atop Anthony’s lap, graceful as the dance he’d performed not an hour prior.

“Take the throne, dearheart, go on,” the King urged, and so Petyr did, lowering his slick hole upon Anthony’s rigid cock, having been stretched and prepared fully during his previous two peaks. The look on the boy’s face was just as exquisite as any other, but he couldn’t stop staring, eyes boring into every line of muscle as it worked, the boy fully nude while Anthony himself had only freed his prick from his breeches.

Anthony’s groan mingled with Petyr’s pitched whine as the boy sank down upon his length, taking him to the hilt with far more ease than he had even a few days prior. Gods but the boy was beautiful, seated upon his lap, looking down at him with those eyes full of wonder and want. His hands found Petyr’s face, fingers curling into his sweat damp hair and guiding him down for another deep kiss, his tongue claiming every inch of that sweet mouth as they both adjusted to the feeling.

As always, however, Petyr moved even before Anthony would have intended to, proving himself ever ready for the _more_ he so claimed he wanted. The King was hard-pressed to deny the boy anything like this, though, leaning back as Petyr straightened up and began to move with the same sinuous grace that he displayed in every dance. Surely the boy was going to be the end of him, Anthony thought, hands gripping that trim waist as sinewy muscles rippled and flexed with the movement, a far cry from the hurried and hungry thing they’d shared that first night. 

No, this was slow, steady, Petyr’s movements measured as if practiced though he knew they were not. Anthony’s eyes lidded halfway as he took steadying breaths through his nose, never breaking eye contact with the boy above him. Above, as symbolic as it could be, considering the way that Petyr had crept into his life and become a fixture in it, shining light upon his bruised and broken soul.

“ _Gods_ , Pete, how do you do this to me?” the King breathed, sliding one hand up the boy’s side, thumb grazing over a nipple and making Petyr clench around him and gasp. Nothing about the boy was imperfect, he thought, slowly rocking his hips to meet those fluid downward motions. This was a build worthy of lovers, Anthony realized, the thought stealing the breath from his lungs, vulnerability in his eyes as he met dark, honey brown that stared him down in turn while maintaining movement, having no answer for his King other than a shuddering moan. 

“How are you so damned good at this?” he marveled, Petyr’s fingers digging into his shoulders as his pace started to increase, breaths pitching into thready moans, quiet whispers of Anthony’s name. “Petyr...” was a word laced with more than he could express, their breaths mingling as he drew the boy down close, lips just shy of touching.

“You taught me, your grace,” Petyr answered, breathless, his head thrown back as he drove himself up and down on his King’s cock, thighs flexing with every movement. “You taught me to- to dance, taught me swordplay, taught me to pay attention-” he continued, every statement accompanied by another, harsher drop of his hips. Anthony couldn’t possibly hold on, couldn’t last knowing all of this.

It was because of him, the way the boy had watched him, taken his lessons to heart. To think that Petyr had applied all of that even to the art of coupling, it truly was a marvel to him. Anthony groaned deep, gripping the boy’s hips tighter as he began to meet the downward motion with thrusts of his own, the steady, familiar build tightening in his gut and urging him onward.

“Pete, fuck, do you have any idea what you do to me? Gods, you’re perfect, you’re perfect I swear, you give me everything, too good for me, too good,” Anthony babbled as he neared his peak, thrusts sharp and steady against the boy’s ass, the resounding smack of flesh echoing in the empty hall. He was close, so close, but he _needed_ for Petyr to fall over that edge before him, wrapped a hand around the boy’s leaking cock to ensure it.

For his part, Petyr was reduced to whimpers and moans, panting breaths pitched high and keening the moment the King took hold of him. Despite having spilled himself twice already, the feeling of Anthony’s cock driving deep within him, grazing that spot inside with every thrust, and the steady pump of his King’s fist around his own prick rapidly drove him toward a third. The increasing pitch of his moans and cries were enough for Anthony to know he was close, and so he worked his hand quicker, tighter.

When Petyr finally crested that wave, the tight clench of him around Anthony’s cock brought the King over as well in a matter of a few solid thrusts, burying himself deep as he spilled his seed, claiming, owning the boy in his lap inside and out. Anthony even went so far as to suck a dark bruise on the side of the boy’s neck, a belated retaliation to the way that Quentyn had marked him when they’d first lain together, hips jerking a few more times before he finally stilled.

“Say my name,” Anthony groaned as he slowly came down from his high, delirious and intoxicated from the wine and Petyr’s scent surrounding him. “Say it,” he urged, but the boy shook his head where it rested against the King’s shoulder, whimpering in response. “Pete...” he breathed, hand soothing down the boy’s back, needing to hear it, to break that last barrier between them, to bring them down to the same level.

“Your grace, I can’t-” Petyr gasped, though he clung to his King all the harder for the request, no, the _demand._ To deny Anthony would be to deny his King, and it twisted something up in his chest to think it. Though they were still connected, the King’s cock slowly softening and his spend just as slowly seeping out around him, the boy still hesitated, until he was urged yet again.

“Please,” Anthony whispered, and it was the undoing of them both, the plea of a King to his squire, a lover to his beloved, something altogether inappropriate and appropriate all at once.

And so Petyr obliged, the reverent murmur of _Anthony_ causing the King to tighten his grip almost unbearably, holding him close where they sat, still joined, upon the throne of the North. It was everything they wanted, and yet everything they couldn’t be.

* * *

A fortnight later, Petyr watched as a procession entered through the gates of Winterfell, all dun mares and clay colored banners decorated with white and gold. It was a familiar banner, of one of the houses from the far southern border of the kingdom, and the sight of it spun in his head like too much drink on a hot day. There, astride the second mare in line, rode the impeccably dressed daughter of House Potts, humble yet sophisticated in her pale traveling cloak rimmed in white fur. White was such a luxury in the North, not something most could keep so crisp and clean, and yet House Potts took pride in showing the purity of their status.

Her red hair stood out amongst the dreary colors of the keep as she lowered her hood, and the boy noted with a pang that it was not one of the stable boys which greeted her procession. No, there to help her down off her horse was none other than Anthony himself, lips pressed delicately to her knuckles to bring a fond smile to her fair face. The King was more deferential to her in his demeanor than to any Petyr had seen, enough that they seemed to be old friends, though he himself knew little about her.

The boy knew that she was shrewd and cunning, a natural born leader with a gaze so sharp it could set men to cowering in fear of their family jewels. Objectively, she was a beautiful woman, even Petyr had to admit that, but all he saw in the sweet smile she offered Anthony was an end. Still, he greeted her amicably, politely as he was taught, offering a bow and a small, nervous smile of his own that almost reached his eyes.

“Ser Parker,” she greeted, her voice coy but not unkind, and he saw Anthony shift behind her, saw the telltale twitch that he knew meant the King was decidedly uncomfortable and attempting not to show it. Petyr knew Anthony all too well. He knew the laws that governed the North, and the proprietary necessities, and still it did nothing to soothe the ache in his heart and the sinking feeling in his gut. The boy couldn’t be certain, of course, but the signs surely pointed that way.

“Not quite yet, I’m afraid, my lady,” he countered, a humble apology that he was sure she found endearing as he took the reins of her horse, gaze lingering on Anthony from under the mare’s tassels. Later, he would ask the King about her, about the easy familiarity they shared, that friendly, teasing sort of banter that obviously exuded an air of _more_. 

“I’ve heard so much about you. His grace speaks very highly of you,” she added, and Petyr felt mildly ill, wondering to himself if perhaps she knew just _how_ highly their King spoke of him. He doubted it, doubted even Maester Hogan knew of the nature of their bond, but said nothing of it and ducked his head shyly instead, not quite able to curb the slight flush that crept up onto his cheeks.

“I’m just a squire, my lady,” the boy deflected, and again noticed the way Anthony’s jaw ticked, the way the man’s fingers twitched. “I’ve got to see to it your mounts are fed and watered, but I’m sure we’ll meet again at supper,” he added, knowing full well that it was no longer his job to do so, but needing to excuse himself from the two of them nonetheless. When the King didn’t protest, he gave a bit of a tight smile, leading the mare away toward the stables with a gentle tug on her reins.

“Come on, let’s have a drink and catch up, shall we, Lady Potts?” Petyr heard Anthony offer, heard the coy, amused edge to her voice when she responded, “Of course, your grace,” the title almost like an afterthought, or an inside joke. He was certain her arm was in his by now.

Resisting the urge to visibly wince, the boy kept his head down after that, not wanting to see whether the King looked back for him or not as he heard the retreating crunch of their boots heading for the keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.


	10. In the Shadow of the Pyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Duty_ ,” the King spat, the word bitter on his tongue and burning like bile in his throat just to speak it, and he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes to fight the way they too burned. Gods but he’d let himself get too attached to the boy, had known all along it could never last, had tried so hard to stay away, but _Becke_ , damn him, just had to go and break down every carefully constructed wall he’d put up. To know what Petyr felt like, what he sounded like, it was a curse he would never outlive, and his resolve wavered every single time he thought of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TMS: So here we are again, sooner than expected! There isn't a lot of action in this chapter but it's very much opening us up to pieces of the actual PLOT! That said, we're in the final stretch now, with an estimated five more chapters to go and a plan for all of it, so hang in there and thank you all for sticking with us.

Anthony didn’t call on Petyr that night, nor the next. By the time a week had passed, the boy felt constricted in his skin, something ever present bubbling beneath the surface and screaming to be let out. He satisfied himself at night in his own bed, fire guttering low in the hearth, and fell asleep to dreams of ash and steel and blood, of hands that lingered only to vanish the moment he turned around. More and more often he woke in a cold sweat, panic in his veins and an ache in his heart he couldn’t place.

Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to.

Only then did the King send for him, and even then only in a formal setting, a distance between them that was immeasurable compared to what they’d shared. Petyr longed to reach out, to close that gap, and he could see it in Anthony’s eyes over the long table, yet there was a certain resignation to them both, even as the Lady Potts gathered her entourage and left Winterfell for a time. It remained unspoken, but they both knew she would be back. The chambers she had occupied remained in order and vacant, set aside and still seemingly temporary, all too telling.

And so it continued, day in and day out, until Petyr was finally directed to the lessons he so fervently demanded before. Now, however, he knew that it marked a transition there was no coming back from, even moreso than before. Anthony had said he would change, yet he still believed that under different circumstances he might not have.

Now, the dance he performed glinted with steel as much as his training in the yard, though here it was with short sword and dagger, weapons of a more personal nature. Now, he was finally allowed into the keep’s apothecary, having proven his skill with such things long ago but forbidden from expanding his knowledge. In Anthony’s absence in his life, he found himself inundated with new skills and new applications of the knowledge he already possessed, his training taking a turn he had expected but never dared question.

After all, Petyr had always been proficient with tinctures and the like, but his specialty truly fell in with the tools of a trade he had only glimpsed the surface of until now. His greatest gift of innate talent had always been with substances that could disable, numb, or even kill, and now, he had access to everything he needed to develop new and more potent concoctions. Throwing himself into the development process was just one way to ignore the distance Anthony put between them, the barriers that had been reinstated since that visit.

He’d always known he was for greater things than simple knighthood, and yet somehow, he had been certain that he would’ve had more time. Anthony seemed certain of that as well, once. The King still oversaw the culmination of Petyr’s efforts, of course, but the boy saw in his eyes the longing he controlled, the purposeful distance whenever a position was corrected. Gone were the intimate touches that lingered, the softness in earthen eyes, and the warmth in Anthony’s smile. It wasn’t exactly difficult to guess the nature of Lady Potts’ visit, not with all the signs pointing in exactly the same direction.

And yet Anthony never spoke to him about it, left Petyr floundering and empty, grasping only at assumptions and intuition rather than facts. The boy didn’t dare ask, not when he knew already, deep down, the dreams that came to him ever clearer and always more and more troubling.

Despite it all, Petyr still tried to present himself in his best light, pushed himself to succeed and excel at every task put before him even though they took him farther and farther from the throne and the man sat upon it. He relished the moments when Anthony would reach for him, even just to adjust the angle of his arm, selfishly hoarding those simple touches even as he ached for more. Even without her there, the Lady of house Potts still thwarted every attempt the boy made to be closer to his King once more.

Really, he knew, even as he should have known from the very start.

Still, Petyr screamed his despair into his pillows at night, alone and haunted by visions of what would come. He truly had thought he would have had more _time_.

* * *

“Is there no way we can invalidate it? Surely my own word means more than that of my dead father by _now_ ,” Anthony groused, pacing his quarters much to the frustration of Maester Hogan. “I mean, I’m the damn _King_ , does what I want count for nothing all of a sudden?” Truly, he couldn’t blame the Maester for the look he was given, but oh how he wanted to. Rubbing at his temple with one hand, he tipped back his wine glass with the other.

“Look, you know I’m on your side here, but there’s really nothing we can do about it. Trust me, I’ve tried to find a workaround but there just isn’t one,” Harold stressed, chain clinking as he shifted where he stood, closer to the window than the door to the King’s chambers. “Being King doesn’t always mean getting everything you want, remember? There are rules, formalities, traditions, and oh, right, you need an heir, your grace, or the Stark name ends with you. I don’t like it any more than you do-”

Anthony cut him off with a look that could have withered the plants in the garden as surely as the coming winter. “Oh I’m pretty sure I like it a lot less than you do, Hogan. Not that the Lady Potts isn’t a stunningly beautiful woman, not that she’s not a perfectly fine match, but I don’t _love her_ , I never have, don’t know if I ever _can_ , don’t you get it? I know you have your vows, but this was never something I wanted. Being _forced_ into it? Gods I hate these practices, can’t we change them?”

“Afraid not, your grace. Just give her a chance, alright? As your friend you know I’m not going to say anything about your uh, _proclivities_ be they as they are, but you have to think of Winterfell, of the whole North, and you know that,” the Maester countered, and Anthony slumped heavily into the chair in front of his desk, dropping his head into his hands. “Besides, if you don’t take a wife and produce an heir, who do you think will end up on that throne, huh? Hammer? Do you want that idiot running the North? Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

“That’s enough, Hap, just... Just go, I need to think,” Anthony replied, defeated. With a nod and a slight bow, the Maester vacated his quarters, but not before placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Or, at least, it was meant to be reassuring, but nothing could truly reassure the King right now, not with what loomed in front of him, the pain he would have to inflict and already was. His hands were tied, though, even as King in the North, and even though it broke his heart to see the way that he was hurting Petyr, he knew that it would be better for the boy to move on.

At least, that was what Anthony kept telling himself every time the urge struck him to wander the halls and he found himself outside of the boy’s bedchamber. Every time the need struck him to touch, to hold, to _possess_. Virginia was a compassionate woman, but he knew she would never approve of such a sordid affair.

“ _Duty_ ,” the King spat, the word bitter on his tongue and burning like bile in his throat just to speak it, and he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes to fight the way they too burned. Gods but he’d let himself get too attached to the boy, had known all along it could never last, had tried so hard to stay away, but _Becke_ , damn him, just had to go and break down every carefully constructed wall he’d put up. To know what Petyr felt like, what he sounded like, it was a curse he would never outlive, and his resolve wavered every single time he thought of it.

Just one last time was a thought that seeped like acid and burned like dragonsfire through his determination. It was poison worse than the mixtures Petyr tested on the rats in the cellars, because it could never be _just_ one last time. Anthony would always, _always_ want more, and _just one more time_ would turn into two, and three, and a dozen, and he would never be able to stop. It was why he couldn’t let himself fall into that trap now, had to cut himself off like he had been, had to maintain that proper distance no matter how much it deadened him inside to see the light fading in the boy’s eyes a little more each time they met his across the hall.

He’d known that Petyr was damnation for him, and yet he’d done it anyway, his selfishness making the boy pay the price alongside him as if his ego couldn’t let him suffer alone.

With a yell, he swept his arm across his desk, sending parchments and ink, trinkets and all to the floor with a clatter. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, so he swept his arm the other way, toppling the unlit candles and a sculpture he’d wrought of iron as a boy. A pity the desk itself was too solid and heavy for him to flip, or he would have, sending his chair to the floor unsatisfyingly whole as well. He reached for the carafe of wine in the antechamber, poured himself one glass and then another, and another, but nothing would drown it out enough.

A fortnight was all he had.

A fortnight and then he would be sharing his empty bed with a woman he knew well but not well enough, fair of skin like Petyr but taller, hair longer, and to be fair, he favored the look of the boy’s rump in his breeches a lot more than he did hers. The North needed a Queen, needed an heir, certainly, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

Winded by his own outburst, Anthony sank to the floor, carafe in one hand and goblet in the other, doublet disheveled and hair askew. He hadn’t tended to his beard in days. To think, if Petyr were to walk in on him right then, the sight he would see. A haggard old King, pitiful and drunk, probably ready to grovel for forgiveness for all the things he’d done and all that he never would. The laugh he let loose sounded bitter and hollow to his own ears.

It would be better this way. Petyr was young. He would find another, more suitable partner.

The King sneered and poured himself another glass.

* * *

Alone in his bed, Petyr tossed in a fitful sleep, dreams haunting and vivid, terrible and poignant.

He stood alone once more on the ramparts of Winterfell, but there was no sea of red tendrils this time, only emptiness, silent and bleak. A soft snow fell, blanketing the keep in white, deceptively peaceful and serene. He turned as if drawn to, eyes lighting upon the window to which he’d climbed what felt like ages ago, now familiar dread curling in the pit of his stomach. There, silhouetted against the thin curtain, he could just make out two figures, the way they tangled together, intimate, familiar. _Wrong_.

The boy’s feet were leaden as he made his way toward the keep, slogging through the freshly fallen snow like a mire. He couldn’t go any faster, the weight of his heart a ball and chain keeping him prisoner, keeping him slow. Distantly, he heard the scream of a raven, and the sconces guttered and went out, a bitter wind racing down the hall and chilling him to the bone. Still, he pressed on, until he heard something else; a child’s crying, quiet and muffled behind the heavy door in front of him.

When he managed to finally push the door open, Petyr fell to his knees to the sight before him, scream lodged in his throat but no sound escaping. Blood. Or was it wine? The scene was strangely familiar, the two scents mixing together in his nostrils and indistinguishable. He smelled freshly turned earth after a rain, tasted ash and salt and bile, felt the floor crumble beneath his fingers as the world pitched and dissolved.

A pair of doors, now, and the smell of salt air; the sea, which he’d never seen, a temple looming above him, secluded and offering no entry. A house, he thought, tilting his head at the peculiar, enigmatic doors, but as he reached out to touch them, to push them open, he was flung far afield, to a campfire in unfamiliar woods, squirrels roasting above it and filling the night air with the scent of cooked flesh. Green eyes bored into his own, seeing right through him, down to his hollowed out soul, a flicker of something flipped between delicate fingers glinting in the firelight. What was it? A coin?

The longer Petyr looked, the blurrier the image became, the growing din of whispered voices laced with muffled cries and screams blotting out the crackling sound of the fire. He blinked away the smoke in his eyes and stood in the gardens of Winterfell once more, colorless and dead but for a beautiful purple flower on a vibrant green stalk standing tall in the snow and silence. Innocuous. Pretty. Deceptive.

The blossom was nightshade.

Slowly, the boy approached, eyes stinging and ears ringing as the flower swayed in a breeze that wasn’t there, tempting. Too tempting, and as he reached out for it, fingers poised to tentatively touch the petals, he felt hands rough and bruising on his hips, like ice through his clothes, a beard scratching against his neck and teeth grazing his ear. Spinning on his heel, there was a flash of blue in the darkness, but there was nobody there despite the pressure on his throat and the heat of breath whispering against his hair.

 _Oh, Petyr_ , an all too familiar voice crooned, condescending and chilling him deeper than the snow. _You need to_ **_wake up_**.

And he did, choking on a scream and clawing at his throat where he could still feel the ghost of pressure, eyes crusted from tears shed in his sleep as he gripped his blankets white-knuckled and shook uncontrollably, trying to catch his breath. For several long minutes he sat hunched over on his bed, gasping for air until the beat of his heart against his ribcage finally began to relent and his head stopped spinning so maddeningly. For too many minutes after that, he stared at his hands, nigh unseeing, letting the pieces he could still grasp at settle into place alongside so many others.

There was no way that Petyr was getting back to sleep tonight.

Instead, he slid out from his bed, pulling on only as many layers as he needed to ward off the chill of the impending winter. Wandering the halls, the boy hesitated at the turn off to the upper rooms, where he knew Anthony must have slept just as fitfully for very different reasons. It pained him greatly to turn away down a different hallway, tears threatening to gather once more, but he held them back and made his way down the corridor toward the guest quarters.

Petyr had no idea the hour, but he swallowed his nerves, scrubbed at his eyes, and stopped outside one particular door, steeling himself. A few steadying breaths later, he brought his knuckles against the wood, lightly but not so light as to not be heard. Maybe the occupant of the room would be asleep, would fail to wake at the quiet sound, or perhaps not. Maybe it was wrong to be sneaking around the keep this late at night, moonlight spilling through the windows like a serene backlight as he all but held his breath.

The boy didn’t have to wait for long before he heard the soft sound of approaching footsteps, saw the flicker of candlelight beneath the door before the sliding of a lock followed. And then he was looking up into the pale blue eyes of Ser Quentyn Becke, who had the sense it seemed to at least _pretend_ to be surprised before he stepped aside to let Petyr into his chambers. The boy’s gaze flicked across the room as he entered, taking in the details and small personal touches that the knight had made to the simple space. There was a candle on the desk, guttering low, several raven’s scrolls scattered across the surface. A wax seal, a simple quill, the armor he’d worn at the tourney in the corner with that strange helm at its feet.

Before Quentyn could ask him what he was doing here, he turned, the halo of light gone from behind him in this position but illuminating more vulnerability in his somewhat bloodshot eyes than he would have cared for.

“Can we talk? Please? There’s... there’s not really anybody else I can go to...”

Petyr watched as Becke checked the hallway before shutting the door behind him, catching a touch of concern before the knight plastered on a bit of a tight smile. There was something else there, between the somewhat shorter length of his hair and the more kept style of his beard, a look in blue eyes that the boy had finally come to recognize as _hunger_ , barely contained from the first day they’d met. It stirred something within him even as it sent a chill down his spine.

“Of course, Petyr,” Quentyn replied, smooth as ever. “You’re always welcome, here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to join us on Discord! We're part of a [Spiderio server](https://discord.gg/FumvCxwsKy) (but other ships are also welcome)! I like sharing sneak peaks sometimes.


End file.
